Possession
by CoolBreeze1
Summary: Sheppard and the rest of his team travel to Sateda to strike up a new alliance in their fight against the Wraith, but not all is what it seems, and Sheppard soon finds himself fighting for his life. Set early season 2, slight time-shift AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm very nervous about this story - first, it's long (much longer than anything I've ever written). Second, it is technically an AU, but let me explain! The best way to describe it is that it's a bit of a time-shift AU: everything on the Atlantis side is canon up through early season two (pre-Runner); Ronon and Sateda are where they were at before the Wraith attacked and destroyed them. Basically, the story addresses the question, what if Sateda's fight against the Wraith had happened in early season two after the Atlantis expedition arrived in Pegasus, and what if those two groups met? Have I utterly confused you now? Even if you're not much of a fan of AU, I hope you give this a chance...

Huge thanks to my wonderful betas **everybetty****, wildcat88** and **pheral**. I couldn't have finished this without you all!

* * *

**Possession**

_Chapter 1—Prologue_

Infantry Division Commander Gilm Langus of the Southern Coastal Region fumbled with his keys in the dark before finding the right one and slipping it into the lock of his comfortable suburban home. The sound of waves crashing against Sateda's famous coastal cliffs echoed behind him. It had been a long day, and he shrugged stiffly out of his coat before flipping the entryway light on. With a quick glance out into the darkened street, he shut his door and fastened both bolts tightly closed.

It had not been just a long day—it had been a long few months. He sighed, reaching both hands up to his neck to massage the tired muscles. He dragged himself into the kitchen, decided he wasn't all that hungry after all, and settled for a glass of Brose Endel. It was a little less potent than some of the locally brewed ale, but Langus thought himself something of a connoisseur. Brose Endel was a world-famous brandy and left a softer, less bitter aftertaste than most of the cheaper alcoholic options. It was expensive, and it tasted it.

He moved into the darkened study and relaxed into the reading chair set up near the window. He had a spectacular view from this room—the main reason he had bought this particular home rather than some of the less expensive housing options on the military base. He was a division commander, though, and that entailed certain lifestyle expectations—entertaining dignitaries and higher-ups first and foremost on the list. Langus's parties were well-known throughout the military ranks.

The ice in the glass jingled softly as he drained the last of the brandy. He held the cool glass to his forehead for a moment, closing his eyes and letting the fatigue wash over him before pouring himself another glass. He rarely drank more than one glass in the evening, but today had been particularly long and difficult, and he excused himself the small extravagance. He could afford two glasses tonight. Maybe even three.

His thoughts drifted back to earlier that day. The meeting at the capital with the other division commanders, master chiefs, generals and adjunct generals, and even the head of the Satedan military himself—Chieftain Madal—had been long and arduous, and perhaps the most important in all of Sateda's history. Langus should have known what to expect—they were all military men after all—but he seemed to be the lone voice of dissent in their great plan to make a stand against the Wraith once and for all.

He heard his father's voice from so long ago, laughing at his decision to pursue a military career. _Military? You're not made for the military, boy. You're too soft—you enjoy the pleasures of life too much._ Langus grunted, sipping at the glass in his hand. After all these years, his father long dead and in the grave, maybe he could finally admit the man might have been on to something. Langus had never liked fighting, always looking for an easier, less violent way out.

"How the hell did you make it this far, my friend?" he mumbled to himself. He may not be the stereotypical military man, but he knew people and knew how to be in the right place at the right time. He had worked his way up the ranks, scarcely ruffling a feather the entire way, which was a feat in and of itself.

But now Sateda wanted to fight the Wraith directly. He shook his head, swallowed the rest of the brandy including the two ice cubes, and slammed the glass on the small table next to his chair. Fight, fight, fight. That's all anyone had talked about all day. He stood up from the chair and moved closer to the window. The moon was full and bright, and Langus could just make out the ocean swirling darkly at the bottom of the cliffs.

_Maybe you should retire to your little beachfront home and let the rest of us men deal with the war against the Wraith._ Langus heard Commander Kell's voice in his head again, the derision and contempt thick after Langus had attempted to talk reason into the group of military commanders for the umpteenth time. He'd snapped then, retorting that he would if he thought he'd have a home to retire to, but he was sure the Wraith would wipe them out completely if they tried to fight now. He'd thrown his reports and numbers, his carefully crafted case, across the room before storming out, and sixteen months of studying and reporting the state of readiness of all of Sateda's military forces, the latest debriefs on strikes against the Wraith, and every scrap of intel ever gathered on the Wraith themselves fluttered across the quiet room.

Waste. It had been a complete waste. He had never stood up to any of the higher-ups before in his life, so that should have been their first indication that he was serious. It was not a decision he had taken lightly, and he had stuck to it for over a year. He was a respected military officer, commanding all of the infantry forces over the entire southern coastal region. Nothing compared to that in terms of prestige and influence, except maybe the capital region command, but no one had listened. Ever. No one had bothered to take him seriously. He'd been open to the idea of fighting the Wraith at the beginning, the thought of eliminating them as a threat to Sateda a hope no one could quite dismiss, but months of careful study had convinced him that it was a dream.

They couldn't beat the Wraith—not like this. Not with the weapons and military manpower they had at the moment. Maybe in the future, with better technology and better intel, but not now. He had built his argument against fighting the Wraith, accounted for every question or doubt or loophole anyone might have presented to him, and they had rejected him before he'd even had a chance to talk.

"Damn you, Kell," he said, his voice echoing in the dark room. He turned away from the window, rubbing at tired eyes. All his work had been building up to this moment and it had come to naught. The three-hour trip home had been exhausting, his body thrumming with anger as he tried to figure out his next step. Go to the public? Go to the President directly?

He sighed, feeling a deep sadness come over him, and he realized he didn't care anymore. They could all throw themselves at the Wraith, but he was done. He was more tired than he ever remembered feeling. Maybe retirement wasn't such a bad idea. A little earlier than he had been planning, but only by a few years. What difference did it make that it probably wouldn't last that long anyway?

The muscles in his neck and shoulders unclenched a little, and he relaxed. The Brose Endel was thrumming through his bloodstream now, and the stress of the day began to wane a little. _One more glass,_ he thought to himself. _One more glass, then maybe I'll take the day off tomorrow, enjoy the day lounging on the porch and listening to the waves crashing against the cliffs._

He was in the middle of pouring his third glass when he heard the house creak, the sound reverberating through the empty rooms. He paused in his pouring, glancing up toward the door. The room was still dark and he thought maybe he should turn the light on. The house was not very old, but the humid climate had it continuously creaking and settling on its foundation. He poured the last of the brandy into his glass then moved across the room to flip a light on. He sipped as he walked, savoring the soft, warm taste on the back of his tongue.

The house creaked again, and he paused, tilting his head. The sound had been a little more localized, a little more specific. He knew he was home alone but it had sounded like the creak of a floorboard, the scrape of a booted foot against the polished wood. He was still standing in the dark study, glass in hand, but his heart had started to beat faster and adrenaline pumped through his veins with sudden foreboding.

He set the glass down and flipped the light switch to the study. The switch clicked uselessly and the room stayed dark. A blown fuse? There hadn't been any coastal storms lately, but it was getting to be that time of year. He moved forward slowly, out into the dark hallway. He lived alone, always had, but he had the distinct impression that he was not alone at the moment. He gazed around, his eyes straining at the dark corners, searching for the shadow that should not be there.

"Who's there?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm and steady, although he could feel his hands shaking. He was the Division Commander of the Southern Coastal Region, but he was not a military man. No, he was a military man—just not of the combat ranks. He was not that kind of military man. He was not a fighter, never to be mistaken for one of those endlessly worshipped Satedan warrior heroes of the past.

Silence settled around him, enveloping him and his instincts. Langus wondered briefly if he should have stuck to one glass of Brose Endel a night—two glasses were making him paranoid. He thought of his coat hanging in the entryway, his pistol still strapped to the inside holster. He had never fired a weapon in combat. Thirty-four years in the military, and he had never fired his weapon outside of the shooting range, and even that had only been required once a year.

His feet scraped across the floor, and he cursed his inability to move with stealth. The house was pitch black, and he only narrowly avoided running into the small cabinet set up in the hallway. A headache was beginning to build behind his eyes, pounding in time with his heart.

Langus reached the entryway, glancing around but seeing nothing. He tried the light switches but wasn't surprised when they didn't work either. He was halfway through the entryway, one hand reaching out for his coat, when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Langus."

"Who are you? What do you want?" Langus cried out, his voice breaking. A braver man might have spun around, raised his fists, or widened his stance to fight. Langus stood frozen, his coat and weapon just a few feet away hanging on a hook in the wall. He glanced over at it, wondering if he could get to it before the intruder stopped him.

"Don't even think about it, Commander."

"Commander. You know who I am?"

"Infantry Division Commander Gilm Langus, I know exactly who you are."

"What do you want?" Langus's voice sounded small, the house large and menacing and growing more so around him. He heard the soft scuffle of a foot behind him, but before he could spin around to face the threat, something wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He felt a rope, thick and rough, wrap around his neck, then tighten.

"I want you, Langus," the voice answered. A man's voice. Whoever he was, he was large and very strong, and the rope cinched tighter around Langus's throat. Langus choked out a breath, wiggling to loosen the man's grasp on him, but to no avail.

"Please…" he breathed out, but the only response his attacker gave was to pull harder on the rope. Langus coughed, and his legs turned to rubber beneath him. He felt his knees beginning to bend, unable to hold up his weight for much longer, but the man with the rope held strong. Langus opened his mouth again, intent on begging, bribing, and anything else that would get him out of this situation, but no sound came out. His legs gave way completely, but the man held him up by the rope around his throat and the dark house grew darker and the ocean outside grew louder until Commander Gilm Langus of the Southern Coastal Region saw nothing ever again.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

"Welcome, my friends, to Sateda," President Sal Nurif announced, his voice loud and boisterous. He held his hands open, an almost universal non-threatening gesture of welcome. The man wore a silk suit that shimmered as he moved, accentuating a muscular upper body and not quite hiding a pot belly that revealed many years of rich eating.

"Thank you," Elizabeth answered, extending her hand. "I'm Doctor Elizabeth Weir, the leader of my people."

The President hesitated just a moment, then stepped forward and grasped her hand. He didn't seem to know what to do with it, so he held it for a second before letting go and glancing at the others in the group.

"This is Teyla Emmagen, of Athos, and Doctor Rodney McKay, our lead scientist," she said. The two people in question stepped forward, greeting the dignitary quickly.

"And this," Elizabeth continued, "is Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, the head of our military, and Major Evan Lorne, his second-in-command."

John had been watching the entire meet-and-greet from the back, and he had to force himself not to grimace at suddenly being thrust to the front of the group. He held a hand out to the President, shaking it briefly and trying not to stare at the silk suit and the salt and pepper hair slicked back from the man's forehead. There was no doubt in John's mind that Sal Nurif was a politician—a very good politician.

"Sir," John replied, dropping his hand behind his back and wishing he could rub it against his pant leg. Lorne stepped forward as well, offering his hand but not saying anything.

"Were you part of the military strike force that saved one of our Satedan squadrons from eminent death?"

The man was oily to the core. John let a small smile lift the corners of his mouth and nodded, but he gazed unblinking at President Nurif. He, Teyla, and McKay had all been there, along with an extra Marine unit with plans to investigate a suspected Wraith research lab. What they'd found instead was an entire Wraith combat unit battling a ragtag team of humans, and the Wraith had definitely been winning. His team had intervened, coming at the Wraith from the side and using the element of surprise to overwhelm them. The ragtag team of humans had turned out to be a military squadron on an intel gathering mission from Sateda. John's team hadn't heard of Sateda, and the Satedan team didn't know them, but they'd fought side by side for another hour before the last of the Wraith were finally subdued.

"I would like to thank you and your team, on behalf of all of Sateda, for your help on that mission. Surely, had you not intervened, our men and women would have been lost."

"We're glad we were there in time to make a difference," John finally said, earning a smile of praise from Elizabeth and Teyla, and a not-so-subtle eye roll from McKay. Lorne had returned to his position in the back, no doubt grateful he was only the second-in-command.

"And we're glad for the opportunity to make a new ally in the fight against the Wraith," Elizabeth stepped in smoothly.

Nurif's smile widened as he looked at Elizabeth and he nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. I believe we have much in common, and much to discuss. Please, you have traveled far. Come this way where we may relax and dine together."

The group followed Nurif out of the small entryway, and John glanced at the two guards at the door who had escorted the Atlanteans from the stargate—located in a large, walled square in the middle of a thriving metropolis—to the palatial building where the President had been waiting. They stared straight ahead, not meeting his eyes, but they reminded John of the British Royal Guards standing outside of Buckingham Palace in London. They weren't wearing any hats, and their coats were green rather than red, but John could see that they were just as well-trained.

The group moved through the ornate hallway quietly, their steps muffled by the thick white carpet at their feet. A memory from childhood suddenly flashed through his mind of him and his brother Dave running through their home in Connecticut after a particularly adventurous trek through the woods at the edge of the backyard, leaving muddy footprints on their mother's brand-new, cream carpet in their wake. He glanced down at his adult feet, relieved to see he was not leaving any mud or dirt behind him.

They turned a corner, and Elizabeth and Teyla gasped in surprise. Both John and Lorne reached for the 9-mils at their thighs, and John was thankful that the Satedans had allowed them to keep their handguns even though they'd insisted they all check in their P90s at some kind of military office near the entrance of the President's palace.

The threat, however, was nonexistent. As he rounded the corner, he realized half of his group was staring in awe at the wide wooden staircase, curving up through the open lobby to the second floor. The staircase itself was covered in detailed carvings and stained a dark red. Large stained glass windows cast colored light across the white carpeted floor, and a row of hanging crystal lights circled and curled around itself in the center of the ceiling, resembling something more like modern art than a palatial chandelier. The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in a weird, puffy gold-colored wallpaper. This room was the most ornate, elaborate, and ostentatious room John thought he had ever seen in any palace in either the Milky Way or the Pegasus galaxies.

"Huh," McKay mumbled, glancing around. Lorne had stepped back and was staring up with fascination at the ceiling.

"Yeah," John answered.

"It is beautiful," Teyla spoke up.

"This is the pride and glory of Sateda," Nurif said, his voice echoing and filling the large room. "The staircase was hand-carved by one of our most decorated artisans and depicts Satedan history from its very beginning on the first step, to the present day at the top."

Nurif spun around to wave his arms majestically at the stained glass window. John eyed the guards at both doorways, watching but not watching them, and he forced his fingers to loosen their grip around the hilt of his gun. _We're safe here,_ he kept reminding himself. _These people could be very good allies._

The stained glass window was about thirty feet high and depicted three Satedan warriors, swords in hands, standing resolute on a rock with a dark orange sky at their backs. Blood dripped from their faces and swords, and their eyes spoke of a long, difficult, but ultimately victorious battle.

"This is one of our most famous paintings, re-created here on this glass in all its detail. The original hangs in the Sateda Museum of Art. This was a great battle, the final victory in the fight for Satedan unity. While the Wraith are a formidable enemy, and always have been, I regret that they have not been our only enemy. Too often we have found ourselves fighting each other in our history, when the greater risk of the Wraith still hung over us."

"We have experienced something similar in our own history," Elizabeth said.

"Then we understand each other. It is unfortunate that fighting and wars seem to be such a human shortcoming."

"And yet you've managed to surpass that to create a beautiful piece of art." Elizabeth glanced back at the staircase. "Two beautiful pieces," she amended, "among many more, I'm sure."

Nurif smiled, his eyes sparkling, and he gestured the group toward the stairs. "Allow me to share more of my world with you."

John trailed behind them all, rolling his eyes at the interplay between the two diplomats. He really hated politics. Really, really, really hated it. How Elizabeth and Teyla both found the patience to deal with these situations—flattering and negotiating, giving and taking—was totally beyond him. Elizabeth and Nurif were still talking, joined occasionally by Teyla when asked about the Athosians.

John glanced at McKay and Lorne, and was relieved to see they looked as bored as he felt. McKay ambled along, glancing around him at the paintings that hung on the walls or out the windows that overlooked the city. His mind was clearly on other things, and John imagined the scientist was thinking of all the projects he needed to be working on back home on Atlantis.

John felt more than saw the guards trailing them at a respectful distance and he met Lorne's eyes briefly, noting that the major had also noticed them. They weren't too close, not enough at least to make the group feel like they were under tight guard, but they were near enough to step in and intervene if the Atlanteans proved not to be the allies Nurif hoped. John rolled his shoulders, forcing the muscles to relax, and glanced out the window. The sky had been blue when they'd first arrived, but clouds had rolled in, creating a formless bright gray ceiling over the city. The cityscape itself was striking—these people were way more advanced than just about every civilization they had encountered before, including the Genii. Skyscrapers jutted up into the white sky, and while the city wasn't massive, it had to hold at least a few hundred thousand people.

"I regret the weather is not more pleasant for your visit," Nurif said, and John turned his attention back to the President. The group had paused in front of a set of glass doors that opened up onto a large balcony. "I was hoping we could have dined out here, but we are nearing winter and the weather has grown chilly in the last few weeks."

"We understand," Elizabeth answered. "The view is stunning."

Nurif beamed with pride again, and waved the group forward. John quickened his pace, intent on joining the conversation before it devolved into endless praise for one another's art and crafts.

"The city looks pretty big," he said.

Nurif glanced at him and nodded. "The capital holds well over 227,000 people—the largest city on our planet."

"Impressive."

"We have had an influx of people in the last few days with news of your arrival. Sateda has few contacts on other planets—we have managed, in recent years, to be self-sustaining. Most of our interactions with other planets happens off-world, so your arrival here has churned up quite the excitement."

"We don't come across many large cities in our travels," John continued, hoping he was moving subtly enough for the politician. "May I ask how you've managed to grow so large and so advanced under threat of a Wraith attack?"

"It is our peoples' way," Nurif answered. His voice had grown gruff and serious, but he drew himself up, throwing his shoulders back and letting a glint of fire come into his eyes. "Sateda has always faced many threats, the Wraith first and foremost among them, but it is our nature to persevere, to press forward despite the risks and the setbacks. We have fought each other in our past, but now we are united and engaged singlehandedly in defeating the Wraith scourge. We grow despite their attempts to keep us down."

The man had charisma. John smiled lightly, almost feeling sorry for any politician that might have run against this man. He imagined Nurif could turn on his storytelling mode in an instant, sounding grave and proud all at once and energizing a room or mob of people to believe in him and anything he said. He'd seen it enough times on Earth.

"This way, to the dining room," Nurif said, allowing the others to file into a large banquet hall. Gold-rimmed mirrors lined the walls, and the bleached-white skulls of hunted animals covered the far side of the room.

Nurif crowded in after them and pushed them toward the table, which was set and overflowing with food. McKay's eyes had gone round, and he scooted up to the table eagerly. John moved around the table, keeping the far wall to his back and the door into the room in sight. Lorne paused, waited for John to sit, then picked another strategically located chair. Elizabeth and Teyla gushed at the spread before them, and McKay began piling food onto his plate in almost a panic, much to Nurif's delight. A few seconds later, John noted that the two guards had slipped into the room and taken up positions near the door, trying their best to melt into the walls around them.

* * *

Hours later, John breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped out into fresh air. Their lunch had been good, but it had dragged on a little too long for John's liking, and his back had started to grow stiff from sitting in the beautiful-but-not-very-comfortable chairs. He rubbed his back now, grateful to be up and moving around again. He never had been able to sit still for long periods of time.

The wind had picked up while they'd been eating, and it gusted down the small corridor of space between the palace and a building that looked suspiciously like a large garage. His hair blew back from his face, and he shivered at the icy bite that promised a coming storm.

"This way, sir," a man in a crisp green uniform said. John stepped toward the door of the garage, then realized the man was pointing him toward the corner of the building. He changed his direction and walked quickly, rounding the corner and finding a vehicle idling in the long driveway. The man in the uniform—John had already forgotten his name—opened the door and indicated that he should climb inside.

John bit back the last lingering hesitation of leaving the others at the palace and climbed into the van. Within minutes, they had passed the security gate surrounding the palace and were traveling down busy roads through the Satedan capital, which as near as John could tell was also called Sateda. That had to be confusing.

The city looked liked something out of the 1950s post-war US boom. Large vehicles rumbled down roads, past dozens of shops and businesses and even more pedestrians. John sat back in silence, watching the city pass. Teyla and Elizabeth had been ushered off to Nurif's office to discuss in more depth the details of their proposed alliance. As much as John would have hated sitting through that, he hated leaving them even more. Teyla had caught on to his discomfort quickly and assured him that they would be fine.

McKay had been invited to tour the university and research park, where Sateda's preeminent scientists worked. He had jumped at the opportunity, and John had resigned himself to trailing the scientist for the rest of the day. When Nurif had offered to give John a tour of the large military base on the outskirts of the capital city, John had been torn. Nothing beat seeing firsthand what Sateda's actual military capability was, but not at the expense of McKay's safety. Lorne had stepped up and said he'd keep an eye on McKay, to which McKay had sputtered incoherently and Nurif had laughed.

The President had been insistent, though, that John see the military base, and John got the impression the President was desperate to impress the military man rather than separate them all for some nefarious purpose. He'd agreed reluctantly, catching flashes of relief on both Elizabeth's and Teyla's faces. McKay had run off with nothing more than a quick wave, eager to see the level of scientific endeavor this planet had reached, Lorne trailing behind him with one last wistful glance at John.

The city grew quieter, the businesses replaced with more and more houses. At first they seemed to be row houses, all connected through a shared wall the length of an entire block. Those had slowly given way to single houses interspersed first with small patches of lawn and then larger and larger fields. They had reached the edges of the city.

"The base is just a little farther," the uniformed man said, breaking the silence. "It's the largest base on the planet, and a lot of training activities take place here. It's the main station for new recruits. It's also the staging point for off-world missions."

John nodded, letting the man prattle on. He really wished he'd been paying attention when the man had given his name—Ral-something. Raless, Ralwess, Ross—

"The Ring of the Ancestors is actually much closer to the base than many realize. It appears to be in the center of town, but it is actually much nearer the edge of the city, in that direction."

The man pointed out the window, and John stared at the fields as they flew by. The stargate was nowhere in sight.

"There is a road from the military base to the Ring, which allows our forces immediate and direct access."

"How far is it?"

The man shrugged. "Many minutes. I am not sure of the exact number."

"How often do you send military teams off-world?"

Again, the man shrugged. "Your questions will probably be better answered by Adjunct General Tremek, the commander of the base. He will be leading your tour."

"Not you?"

"No, sir," the man answered with a small smile. The van began to slow down, and John looked through the front window to see a large stone wall, topped with coils of barbed wire ahead of them. A heavy wooden gate was pushed open, and guards stood in the road, signaling the driver to pull over.

A few minutes and one security check later, they were through the gate and into the base. The wall disappeared over hills in both directions, making it impossible for John to get a feel for how large the place was. Safe to say it was huge, as Ral-whatever had said. They drove toward a cluster of plain looking buildings, and as they pulled up to the largest one, another uniformed man stepped out.

This man had on a similar uniform to Ras-something, but it was a little more detailed, and covered in patches and metals. John surmised this man was of much higher rank and smiled when he stepped forward to introduce himself.

"I am Adjunct General Kade Tremek."

"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard."

"Welcome to my base. President Nurif insisted I give you the complete tour."

"That would be most appreciated, sir."

Tremek waved the others away, telling them he would take over from there. John's first tour guide left with some reluctance but eventually departed, leaving John alone with the adjunct general.

"I get a little tired of all the decorum," Tremek admitted in low voice. "Had to get rid of that little green man, though. Those administrative boys are sticklers for decorum. Not sure what that says about me as a military man. I guess I just like action more than talking and politics."

"Now that I can relate to," John answered, chuckling. Tremek was about as tall as John, but thicker through the shoulders. His hair, however, was long and braided, blond going on gray and pulled back behind him.

"I've got a two-man hopper across the lot here," he said, grabbing John's arm and propelling him forward. "Nurif wanted you to see the base, and I can't think of a better way to do it."

The "two-man hopper" looked vaguely like a jeep, but lower to the ground and with no windows. It was only a little fancier than a dune-buggy. John had just managed to sit down next to Tremek when the hopper took off at full speed and tore through the lot, passing by buildings so fast John could hardly keep track of them. He grabbed on to the bars at his side and managed to strap himself in, all while Tremek threw out more information in a single breath than even McKay was capable of.

John's knuckles were white from hanging onto the bar as Tremek weaved in an out of buildings, pointing to barracks and training fields. The man obviously liked speed, hardly slowing down at even the sharpest turns. The base was huge, and the general explained how the forces were spread out over regions, but everyone trained in the capital. This base was the headquarters for the military decision makers, and in charge of defending the capital, launching all off-world missions, and training every man and woman in uniform.

When the hopper finally stopped, it happened so abruptly and unexpectedly, that John slammed forward into the seat restraints over both shoulders and winced when his body was thrown back into the hard seat.

"This is the pride and glory of Sateda," Tremek said, jumping out of the hopper and waving his hand toward the large building next to them.

John's heart was beating frantically from the journey there, but he calmly climbed out of his seat and followed Tremek into the building. The inside was dark compared to the outside and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, his mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Wow."

"Impressive, don't you think? We've been working on developing and improving our aircraft for many years. These are some of the most advanced Sateda has to offer."

John stepped forward, reaching a hand toward the nearest plane before jerking it back and glancing at Tremek. "Uh…may I?"

Tremek laughed, leaning against the wall and gesturing him forward. John reached out again and brushed his fingertips against the smooth metal exterior as he walked the length of the ship. It was obviously designed after the Wraith darts, long and slim, capable of holding one or two people at a time. John climbed up the ladder and peered into the cockpit—altitude, velocity, pitch, fuel, weapons. He drank it in, wanting to crawl into the seat and feel the controls in his hands. After a few minutes, he forced himself to descend back down to the ground.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Tremek asked, looking up in awe at the machine. He had wandered closer when John had climbed up the ladder, and now he stood with one hand on the nose of the ship, patting it almost affectionately. "I started my career as a pilot. We didn't have much in the way of flying craft back then. My job was to test the new designs, let them know what worked, what didn't—try not to crash," he laughed.

John laughed too, moving down the plane to study the wings. "I'm a pilot as well," he admitted.

"I thought you might be," Tremek said. "You look like a man used to speed."

"These really are beautifully crafted," John said a moment later after circling the plane.

"This is our newest design. It's sleek and fast, and turns more quickly than you can blink, but it still has a few issues that need to be worked out."

"Such as?"

"The engine tends to stall out in mid-flight."

"Yeah, that could be a problem."

Tremek grinned. "I don't get to fly nearly as much as I used to, but I still take every opportunity I can to get up in one of these ships. What do you fly?"

"Used to be strictly helicopters—it's a type of craft with rotating blades on top of the compartment that lifts the whole machine up."

"Maneuverable?"

"Very," John answered. "Although, it's not necessarily your best choice for high altitudes or long flights. It also has a limited weight capacity. These days, I fly something we call a jumper. It's about the most responsive craft I've ever set my hands on, although it's worse than a brick if the power goes out."

Tremek waved John forward. "There are a few other craft in here I'd like to show you, but you've piqued my interest now. Tell me more about these craft with rotating blades."

John did. They chatted easily, Tremek eager to hear everything John had to say about helicopters and their use in battle. The man was as excited as a child with a new toy. As they walked, he pointed out other craft—older and clunkier versions of the first plane John had looked at, as well as larger transport type ships and the spitting image of a World War I two-wing biplane.

"That's my personal favorite," Tremek said and pointed at the biplane. "It was the first one I ever took up into the clouds, although it's not the smartest choice if you're about to engage a Wraith ship."

"I've flown something similar a few times," John said. "There's nothing like feeling the wind in your hair with nothing but clouds below you and stars above."

"No question of that, my friend, no question at all."

They left the hangar reluctantly and John looked up at dark gray skies. "Looks like a storm."

Tremek was also looking up. "A bad one—this time of year, the rainstorms around here can get pretty vicious. We should probably head back."

John climbed back into the hopper, buckling himself in quickly, but Tremek drove slowly and pointed to another building just visible behind the hangar.

"That's an assembly plant. The manufactured parts are brought in from around the continent, then put together there."

"What are they making?"

"Aircraft—as many as we can, as fast as we can," Tremek's voice had grown quiet, and he stared at the assembly plant.

"Why the need for so many so fast?" John asked, and he watched as Tremek dragged his eyes away from the building with a visible effort.

"We're making a stand against the Wraith. We're going to fight them—put a stop to this endless war once and for all."

"You plan to fight them here, on Sateda?" John asked, and he flashed to the rows and rows of houses and civilians he'd passed on his way out to the base.

"Yes, we are."

John bit his lip, the announcement of Sateda's war plans racing through his mind. They were certainly more advanced than any planet they'd come across so far, but they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of beating the Wraith. From what John knew of Wraith tactics, the more likely outcome would be total annihilation of anyone who tried to stand up to them.

"You disagree."

Tremek's voice floated over the evening air, a statement and not a question. He was watching John closely despite the fact that the hopper was racing back through the base. They weren't moving at quite the same speed as before, but fast enough. John glanced up at the adjunct general who kept his eyes on the road in front of him.

"I've fought the Wraith more times than I can count," John said after a moment of awkward silence. "I've seen what happens to planets that try to fight back, and I don't think a direct confrontation with the Wraith on your home soil is a good idea."

"We've been preparing for this for years," Tremek said, emotion flooding his voice. He pounded a fist against the steering wheel of the hopper. "Our military is the strongest it has ever been. Our technology the most advanced Sateda has ever seen."

"And you'll continue to advance and grow stronger in the future. But striking the Wraith right now, with what you have here, it won't be enough. I've seen a full scale invasion of a planet, and it's overwhelming." The words tumbled out of John's mouth before he could filter any of them. He knew he sounded like he was questioning Sateda's military ability, which wasn't exactly what he was saying. He closed his eyes, shaking his head and wishing Teyla or Elizabeth were here with him to help smooth things over.

Tremek clearly felt emotions fully and deeply, and his confidence in his own military forces swung rapidly to agitation. "Whose planet? What planet? You tell me our warriors are not good enough to defeat the Wraith, yet you offer little evidence for your position."

"The fact that no one else in this galaxy has ever come close to defeating the Wraith in the last 10,000 years isn't evidence enough?" John asked, then pulled back. He and Tremek had hit it off well, and he didn't want to ruin things. "Look, Tremek. I'm not trying to imply that your military is weak or your warriors incapable. Sateda is one of the most advanced planets we've ever come across, but that doesn't mean it can withstand a Wraith invasion."

Tremek sat in silence at the wheel and John wondered how badly he'd screwed up Atlantis' chance at an alliance. He wasn't a diplomat—Elizabeth knew that. If she was worried he'd jeopardize their new friendship, she shouldn't have sent him out here. John spoke his mind—if people disagreed with what he had to say, so be it. No skin off his back. Usually.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence. Tremek waved his hand at a row of white tents scattered over a large field but said nothing. John stared at the white dots in the field growing darker as evening came on. They looked like training grounds, maybe barracks.

"You said you'd seen a full scale invasion before?" Tremek asked quietly, and John turned back to his tour guide.

"Uh…yeah, I have," he answered tentatively, not sure where the man was going with it. A new light had come into his eyes and he finally looked over at John.

"You could help us. If you could tell us their tactics, their strategies—any intel on how to resist them and fight back—that could have a huge impact. That could give us the edge we need to win—"

"Tremek," John interrupted, holding up his hands. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to provide every last scrap of intel I have on the Wraith if it means more of them will die, but I don't know that I can support any plans you might have of confronting them directly. We barely survived their attack, and we had the complete resources of…of our city at our disposal."

"The Wraith invasion…that was against your world?"

John nodded his head, not really wanting to get into the entire story behind the expedition's arrival from the Milky Way and treading carefully around the secret of Atlantis' survival. He flashed back to the deadly battle, the darts bombarding the shield over the city for hours on end.

"I think it was more luck than anything else that we managed to withstand them."

"You defeated the Wraith in a battle on your planet, and yet you insist that Sateda cannot do the same thing?"

"That's just it, Tremek. We didn't defeat them. We tricked them into thinking they'd destroyed us; somehow the ruse worked, and they left before they wiped us out completely. We suffered heavy losses, and if they ever return, they'll annihilate every last one of us." The image of Ford in the water, half dead with a Wraith attached to his chest rose up in his mind, and John swallowed against the tightening in his stomach and chest.

"I understand that the Wraith are a formidable enemy, Sheppard. I know the limits of our military forces. You are not the first person to voice dissent at this plan, but the time for discussion is over. We are moving forward with our plan." Tremek had pulled up to the large building where John had first met him hours earlier. He stopped the hopper but made no move to get out, and he turned to face John directly.

"I believe in the strength of our military and our warriors, but imagine what could happen if your people and Sateda joined together," he continued, and his face flushed with renewed excitement. "Your weapons and technology and expertise combined with ours would be the greatest military force to ever combat the Wraith."

_Except maybe the Ancients', and even they couldn't beat the Wraith, _John thought, but he kept his mouth shut, pursing his lips at Tremek's growing enthusiasm.

"Freedom from the Wraith—it is the greatest hope of every civilization in this entire galaxy. Sheppard—John—I know you are wary about joining in our fight, but if together we could defeat them…at least consider the possibility. At least talk to the rest of your people."

In his place, John would probably be doing the same thing—wanting the same thing. They had the greater technology, and the greater hope of successfully fighting off the next Wraith culling. If someone else came along with that level of technology and ability, wouldn't he be on his knees begging for their help too?

"I'll talk to them, but I can't make any promises."

"That's all I ask of you," Tremek said, smiling, and the tension of the last few minutes ebbed away. Tremek stood up and John followed suit, and the two made their way into the central building. They passed soldiers intent on their various duties and had just walked into a small, richly carpeted room when a young man behind a desk jumped up and handed a letter to Tremek.

"What is it?" John asked a moment later. Tremek's face had lost all color, and he slid the letter deep into his pocket.

"It is…It…I am sorry. It is shocking news." He swallowed, clasping shaking hands. "One of our division commanders, Gilm Langus, was found dead this morning in his home." He shook his head in bewilderment. "I saw him just yesterday," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Tremek nodded numbly and took a deep breath. "Thank you. He…apparently, he hung himself in his study. It is hard to believe. It…I…There are things I need to take care of in regards to this new situation. We have a team returning through the ring from a mission and I was going to take you there myself, but perhaps you can go on your own?"

"Yeah, I can do that."

Tremek gestured John toward the door and they walked quietly back out to the street. The van he had arrived in was idling nearby. John stood still, not sure what to say to Tremek. There was really nothing much he could say.

Tremek finally shook himself, gripping John's arm for a moment. "Thank you for taking the time to visit our base, and I hope we'll see each other again in the near future."

"Certainly. And thank you for the tour. It really was a pleasure."

Tremek nodded, his eyes distant. "You would have liked Langus, Sheppard," he said. "He would have agreed wholeheartedly with your assessment that we are not ready to stand against the Wraith."

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just a quick note—I have finished writing this story in its entirety (27 chapters!). I'm still going through it chapter by chapter to do final edits. I'm also insanely busy right now with RL stuff, so I can only post about two chapters a week. After about mid-May, I will have time to really focus on finalizing this story and should be able to post more frequently.

_Chapter 3_

Sarif Sur was hot and swampy, and Soldier Ronon Dex growled under his breath at the mud seeping into this boots. He hated these types of worlds. He kept his rifle up near his shoulder and peeked over the crest of the small hill. He could feel sweat dripping down his back, and his uniform clung to his skin when he shifted even slightly.

The Wraith seemed to love these types of places—hot, muggy, wet, muddy, dusty, frigid, barren. Never temperate. Never a nice sandy beach or a wide grassy field. Or maybe these worlds had been nice until the Wraith had arrived. The Wraith destroyed everything worth keeping.

"Dex, any sign of pursuit?"

Ronon glanced back at his squadron leader, Specialist Nolen. The man was crouched near some bushes, one hand on the chest of Soldier Lalket, the other gripping his pistol. Their intel-gathering mission had been based on inaccurate intel, and the "small Wraith outpost" had turned out to be a parked Wraith cruiser. Ronon would appreciate the irony of that later, but right now, they had at least two dozen Wraith pursuing them, one man downed by a stunner blast, and one man writhing on the ground with a broken leg after having been tossed into a tree.

"Nothing yet. They're going to try and cut us off from the ring if they haven't activated it already. We need to move, now."

"Right, right," Nolen mumbled. He looked nervous, but Ronon had learned that Nolen always looked nervous—whether he was playing cards, planning a mission, talking to one of his soldiers, or simply eating his midday meal.

Ronon glanced back at the trees in time to see gray shift against the darker black of the tree trunks.

"Here they come," he whispered, and felt more than saw his squadron mates tense. Nolen finally seemed to come to a decision, and the order to move was given.

The appearance of the Wraith cruiser had been a shock, but the twelve Wraith drones who had immediately poured out from a door in the side and headed straight for them had almost induced panic. Half the squadron was still relatively fresh from training.

It wasn't that Ronon didn't like or respect Nolen, but the man moved too slowly at times, mulling over information for too long. That hesitancy was dangerous, and it had almost gotten them all killed when the Wraith drones had begun firing at them.

Ronon shook his head and backed down the hill. The mud was ankle deep, the trees and bushes around them half dead but thick enough to impede their movements. Moving quietly was nearly impossible, but the squadron did pretty well despite the conditions. Ronon stayed near the back, turning around to look behind his shoulder every few seconds.

Lalket had gone down first, struck in the chest with one of those Wraith stunner blasts. Nolen had called for everyone to fall back and take cover, and most of the squadron had, but Soldier Denay had jumped forward, intent on grabbing Lalket and pulling him to safety. Ronon had turned around just in time to see a Wraith drone pounce and swipe Denay with his hand to send the man flying, and even among the rifle shots that immediately rang out, he swore he heard the crunch of Denay's leg as it had hit the tree. That was impossible, he knew, but the mind did strange things in the heat of battle.

The Wraith drone had gone down before it could feed on Lalket, and the rest of the squadron had regrouped. They'd grabbed Lalket and Denay, then moved as fast as they could through the mud, the rest of the Wraith right behind them.

Ronon heard the snap of a branch and looked up just as a flash of white burst through the trees from the side.

"Hemi!" he yelled, and the dark-haired man carrying Lalket dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up firing. The drone went down, and Hemi looked back at Ronon, nodding his thanks.

The Wraith were smart bastards. Ronon had run into them enough on these off-world missions to know they wouldn't make it easy for the squadron to get back to the ring. Two more Wraith broke through the trees on their right, forcing the group to shift directions. They weren't exactly heading away from the ring, but they weren't heading toward it either.

The ground was a little drier now, and the group picked up its pace. Tyre dropped back to Ronon's position and glanced behind him. The Wraith had disappeared into the swamps for now, but Ronon knew they'd reappear soon enough.

"They're forcing us away from the ring. They're going to try to circle around us, and cut us off from the front," Tyre whispered. His face was intent, but there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

Ronon grinned. He and Tyre had been friends since the first day of training, both young and excited and extremely naïve. They'd bonded under a harsh taskmaster, cursed his name for months as they learned the military trade, then vowed eternal allegiance to him after their first mission off-world over tankards of ale. Taskmaster Kell had been harsh, even cruel, but the training and knowledge Ronon and Tyre had learned had kept them alive. It was no surprise to Ronon when Kell was eventually promoted to Division Commander of the Capital Region.

"I know. We need to cut back through the trees up here before we're surrounded."

Tyre slapped Ronon on the arm. "I'll see if I can convince Nolen to make the call." He ran up ahead, whispering frantically into the Specialist's ear. Ronon could see Nolen leaning forward, listening intently. Tyre was Squadron First Sergeant—not necessarily a higher rank than the other eleven soldiers in the group—excluding Nolen—but he was well-respected and looked up to. When Tyre spoke, everyone listened, including Nolen.

The group swerved abruptly into the trees, led by Nolen and Tyre. Ronon kept a sharp eye out. They were going to run into more Wraith no matter what; he just hoped it wasn't so many that they couldn't fight their way through.

By his calculation, the ring was still a ways away. A few minutes later, the group swerved again, and Ronon nodded in satisfaction. They'd make it to the ring, but not from the direction the Wraith were expecting. That might give them the edge they needed.

The ground had turned muddy again. Ronon took a step and his foot sank into the ground, almost jerking him off his feet. As it was, he flailed a little and had to crouch down to catch his balance.

The movement saved his life. A stunner blast exploded out of the trees behind him and just barely missed hitting him square in the back. He twisted, firing his rifle and pumping his feet to get out of the sticky mud. A Wraith drone toppled to the ground, but he could see more behind that one. He fired again, and then Tyre, Rakai, and Nolen soon appeared next to him. They formed a line, a barrier between their squadron and the attacking Wraith.

"Aaah!" Nolen screamed out, dropping his rifle and falling backward. Ronon crouched down next to him.

"Sir?"

"Arm…hit in arm…can't feel…"

"It's just a stunner blast. It will wear off. Can you run?"

Nolen nodded shakily and pushed himself up with his good hand.

Tyre turned to look at them. "Ronon, you and Rakai take Specialist Nolen to the ring, make sure the squadron gets home."

Rakai had already grabbed Nolen's numb arm and slung it over his shoulder, and the two were running to catch up with the rest of the squadron. Ronon glanced at Tyre. "What about you?"

"I'm going to make sure all the Wraith on this planet don't catch up to you before you escape. Now go!"

Ronon didn't like the plan, but Tyre left him no choice when he suddenly bolted, disappearing into the woods off to their left. Whatever he was planning, he seemed confident about it. He was small and fast too, and there was no way Ronon would be able to catch up to him. He turned and ran for the ring.

He caught up to his group just as they burst into the clearing and found themselves facing a dozen Wraith drones spread out around the ring waiting for them. The ring was active, and Ronon saw that one of the drones was keeping it that way. The squadron scrambled for cover, firing without thinking. Ronon dove behind the large stump of a dead tree then began firing over the top at the smears of white rushing for their own cover.

The gunfight lasted no more than a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Ronon screamed and snarled and fought, twisting around and firing his rifle as Wraith after Wraith popped up from behind trees and dead logs. He could hear the sounds of his squadron fighting around him, firing their rifles endlessly until the last Wraith dropped. The active wormhole snapped out of existence, and there was a moment of stunned silence.

The squadron stood up—all but Lalket, who was still unconscious, and Denay, who was leaning against a tree and still holding onto his broken leg—and they grinned at each other with sudden euphoria. They had fought the Wraith and won. Wraith drones lay scattered over the clearing, and no new Wraith had appeared.

"We need to dial Sateda," Nolen was calling out breathlessly, "before the Wraith block the ring."

The squadron was already in motion. Someone was dialing the ring. Hemi had leaned down to pick up Lalket, who was just beginning his slow return to consciousness. Rakai and Ara were lifting Denay up and easing his arms over their shoulders, and Ronon glanced into the woods, searching for Tyre.

He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and spun around just as one of the Wraith drones lunged to his feet and charged at the nearest target. Nolen yelped in surprise and stared down at the bloody point of the Wraith stunner poking out of his stomach.

The next few seconds happened almost too fast for Ronon to register. Gunshots exploded, felling the drone, and Nolen slumped forward onto his knees. The Wraith stunner remained embedded through his back, blood dripping bright red from the point. Before anyone could move, he fell forward and landed on his face, pushing the point of the stunner back out.

"Rakai, get Nolen. Get everyone back to Sateda. I'm going back for Tyre," Ronon roared. His shout jerked the rest of the squadron out of their moment of frozen shock and galvanized them into action. They moved with sudden intensity, and Ronon could feel the waves of anger and grief peeling off of them. They expected casualties and injuries in their line of work, but it was still a painful shock when it was someone they knew, someone they'd stood with shoulder to shoulder. Rakai was kneeling next to Nolen, reaching his hand out almost tentatively toward their commander.

Ronon turned and ran toward Tyre's position. The image of Nolen dropping to the ground ran through his mind over and over again. He could still smell the blood, and it enraged him, fueling energy into his pumping legs. Ronon wasn't as fast as Tyre, but he was pretty close. The anger pulsing through his veins pushed him even faster.

"Tyre?" Ronon whispered into his radio box. Twigs and branches snapped under his feet as he moved, but he was concerned with speed not stealth at the moment. The radio box remained ominously silent, but they only seemed to work under the best of conditions anyway, and this world was far from ideal.

Sudden gunshots echoed through the trees, and Ronon immediately altered his course. Two more shots rang out, then a hoarse cry abruptly cut short. Ronon felt his heart pumping in his chest frantically. The cry had been Tyre's. Tyre did not cry out. Tyre fought like a demon with a smile on his face.

When Ronon finally burst through the trees, four Wraith stood around Tyre's crumpled, bloody body. Dead Wraith lay at the edge of the small clearing, taken out quickly by his friend. The fighting had obviously devolved into hand-to-hand combat. Tyre's long, serrated knife—a gift from his father—lay a few feet away, covered in Tyre's own blood. No matter how good a fighter you were, Ronon knew that no man could win against four Wraith singlehandedly.

He brought his rifle up and fired, and the shots tore through two of the Wraith in an explosion of violence that only happened at such close range. The other two Wraith spun around and fired their stunners, but Ronon ducked, and the shots missed him narrowly. He could feel the hair on his head sizzling with static electricity. He fired again, missed, rolled for cover, and fired another shot. This one nicked the nearest Wraith, throwing it backward. It tripped on one of the Wraith bodies at its feet and went down with a solid thump.

The other Wraith lunged for Ronon, and Ronon swung his gun around, but too slowly. The two collided and rolled to the ground, punching and choking each other, and trying to gain the upper hand.

Adrenaline infused Ronon's body with a strength he had never felt before. He was at once energized and absolutely terrified. He had never fought a Wraith this close before. He was the best shot in his squadron, so was always assigned a position where he could shoot Wraith, but not get so close that he had to wrestle with them.

The thing smelled putrid—like decaying flesh and burning metal. He could almost taste it in his mouth and he felt his stomach clench. The Wraith's skin was cold, too, a solid body of muscle and death. The Wraith flipped Ronon off of him, and Ronon landed in a prickly bush that poked through his shirt. He howled and rolled off of it to his knees.

Think. He had to think. Kell had prepared him for these types of situations. Ronon felt a sudden calmness come over him as his military training kicked in. The Wraith stood up and advanced slowly, seeming to believe it had quelled the fight out of Ronon. Ronon heard Kell's voice in his mind. It had been the second or third week of training, and they'd been sitting through a briefing on Wraith fighting tactics.

_They never quite expect you to fight back,_ Kell had said. _Too often people have simply locked up in fear, allowing the Wraith to advance and feed. Even if you fight, the Wraith never quite believes it. If it knocks you to the ground, it will at once forget you are capable of fighting back. This is your greatest advantage._

Ronon had never seen it firsthand, but now he realized that Kell was right. He leaned back, feeling for the knife tucked into his boot. He wrapped his hand around the hilt and waited. The Wraith was still moving toward him, and behind him his companion stood up, blood dripping from Ronon's shot to its arm.

His mind screamed to fight, but Ronon forced himself to stay still, to wait for the Wraith to get close enough and present him with an opening to strike. He saw the Wraith stop and pull back its feeding hand, the open slit in its palm quivering grotesquely. Ronon tensed, ready to move.

The Wraith threw its hand at Ronon's chest faster than Ronon thought it could move, and he just managed to bring his knife up and pointing toward the Wraith in time. He had intended to duck the feeding hand and plant the knife somewhere in its chest, but against all odds, the knife stabbed through the feeding hand. The Wraith howled in pain and staggered backward.

A gunshot rang out and the other Wraith, who had been moving toward Tyre, fell backward and lay unmoving. Ronon crawled to Tyre and was relieved to see his friend looking back at him. Tyre shoved his rifle toward Ronon, and Ronon grabbed it and fired, killing the last Wraith still howling and holding the hand with the embedded knife.

"Tyre? Buddy? You okay?"

"Been better, my friend. Thanks for coming back for me," Tyre answered, his voice no more than a gruff whisper.

"Hang on. I'll get you home," Ronon said. Tyre nodded, his eyes filled with pain. Half his face was swollen with bruises, and blood ran down from his shoulder to the waistband of his pants from a deep stab wound. Ronon slapped a bandage over the bloodiest part, but he had no time to properly dress it now. He would have to wait, and hope Tyre could hold on a little longer. He grabbed Tyre's knife and wiped his friend's blood off the blade, then stashed it in a pocket. He lifted the man carefully and cringed at the small whimper of pain that slipped through Tyre's clenched teeth.

Ronon could hear more Wraith in the trees behind him. He settled Tyre as comfortable as he could across his shoulders, then dove back into the trees toward the ring. Branches whipped across his face, but he needed both hands to hold onto his friend. He just hoped no more Wraith had made it to the ring.

It couldn't have taken more than a few minutes, but it felt longer to Ronon. Tyre's extra weight pressed Ronon even deeper into the mud with every step and his legs burned at the effort. When the ring appeared unguarded, he barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before stunner blasts erupted behind him, hitting the trees to either side of him. Ronon dialed Sateda and dove through, not daring to glance behind him.

The ring around Sateda was alive with action and a little bit of panic. Guards leveled their guns first at Ronon then at the wormhole behind him. Ronon's feet stumbled against suddenly solid ground, and he felt himself pitching forward. Hands immediately grabbed for him and Tyre, and then he was swarmed by both medical personnel and his squadron.

"Ronon, what happened?"

"Where did you go?"

"You found Tyre!"

"Stand back, give the man some space."

"Medic!"

Ronon let the voices swirl around him as he gulped in oxygen. Now that the fight was over, his energy was draining rapidly. He looked up to see Tyre being loaded onto a gurney, then onto a medic van. He looked around, finding Rakai.

"Tyre?" he asked.

"Medics said he lost a lot of blood, but they think he'll make it. Thanks to you."

Ronon nodded. He felt hands on his arms pulling him up and leading him toward the medic van. His legs and arms were starting to shake in exhaustion.

"Nolen?" he said, not even sure he'd spoken out loud.

Ara was standing next to him, and her hand tightened on his arm. "He didn't make it."

Ronon nodded, still a little numb at what had happened. His mind was replaying his one-on-one fight with the Wraith over and over again, and he shook his head to clear it. As he climbed into the medic van, his squadron murmured well wishes and stepped back. Ronon rubbed his face with his hands and was surprised when they came away bloody.

He allowed the medic to push him back onto a seat, and the last of his energy fell away from him like discarded clothes. He leaned back in exhaustion and looked out at the group around the ring. The rest of his squadron was there, as was squadron two. They were armed and looked ready to go off-world, but now they seemed to be wandering away from the ring, and Ronon realized they'd been called up to rescue him and Tyre.

The ring had disengaged without any Wraith following them, and the guards had lowered their weapons and stepped back, out of everyone's way. Ronon looked around as people began to disperse and he was startled to see Adjunct General Tremek standing at the edge of the crowd. The man didn't oversee off-world missions directly, so he was rarely around when squadrons left or returned.

Another man stood next to the general wearing a strange uniform. Ronon had never seen him before. He had dark hair that stood up on end in the back. It was a boyish cut, one Ronon rarely saw on adults. The man suddenly looked up at him, meeting his eyes and gazing intently. His jaw was set in an expression Ronon would almost describe as anger. No, not anger. It was more the look he saw on Tyre's face right before the two were about to wrestle—a single-minded intensity.

The door of the van slid shut, blocking the stranger from Ronon's view. He sighed and closed his eyes as the vehicle wove its way through the streets of the capital. He was suddenly exhausted, and finally believing he was safe, he allowed himself to doze off.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

"…the pride and glory of Sateda."

"I thought the staircase was the pride and glory of Sateda."

Rodney McKay heard Elizabeth and Teyla break out into soft laughter as he walked into the main room of the small apartment in the palace the President of Sateda had given them for the duration of their stay on the planet.

"I believe," Lorne said, walking a few steps in front of Rodney, "the university and research center are the pride and glory of Sateda."

Rodney sniffed the air, smelling something delicious, and his stomach rumbled loudly. He'd had nothing but a couple of powerbars to eat since the feast at lunch, and he was hungry.

"Well, hello to you too, Rodney," Elizabeth said with a smile. She and Teyla were sitting at a table in front of bowls of meaty stew. "Here." She pushed a bowl toward an empty seat and Rodney immediately sat down.

"So they're proud of their scientific achievements, I take it?"

"Oh, very much so," Rodney replied, between mouthfuls of stew. Damn, that was good stew. "Every lab they showed us was working on a project that was the pride and glory of Sateda."

"No exaggeration," Lorne added, sitting down next to Rodney and digging into his bowl.

Rodney reached for the basket of rolls in the center of the table. They were still warm. Glorious. "I have to say, though, I was slightly impressed with their level of understanding all things scientific. Where's Sheppard, by the way?"

"The Great Rodney McKay impressed with another planet's scientific achievements?" Elizabeth teased. "And Sheppard's been delayed."

"I said 'understanding' not 'achievements.' Understanding—that's totally different. I merely meant that these people are one step above pre-industrial cavemen, which in this galaxy, is not a common find. No offense, Teyla."

Teyla rolled her eyes, and Elizabeth and Lorne seemed to simultaneously choke on their stew.

"What?" Rodney asked. They were all looking at each other now and passing secret messages with their eyes. He hated when people did that. He never understood half what they thought they were saying. They had mouths—why couldn't they just talk like normal people?

"I have to agree," Teyla finally said. "This civilization is impressive. It is not often that the Wraith allow a planet to advance to such an extent."

"What kinds of things are their scientists working on?"

"Weapons," Lorne answered.

"Energy," Rodney said at the same time. They looked at each other for a moment until Lorne nodded his head, giving Rodney the go-ahead.

"Okay, maybe weapons as well. They have nuclear technology and are actually a number of years ahead of the Genii—I'd put them somewhere around early 1960s Earth, at least 1960s US, Canada, Europe, etcetera, etcetera. Anyway, most of their nuclear research seemed to be devoted to producing power to run their cities. From what I could gather, that focus has changed in the last couple of years."

"They're now working on using nuclear energy as a weapon versus as power—either in the form of a bomb, or powering more conventional weapons," Lorne broke in. "There was one project that was trying to develop defensive capabilities. They didn't really explain it—"

"Shields," Rodney said. He leaned over the pot and scooped another bowl full of stew. "From what I could figure out anyway. I only got a quick glance at some of their calculations, but it looked like they were trying to figure out some way to shield large areas from attack."

"Interesting, especially given what President Nurif talked to us about," Elizabeth said, leaning back in her chair. "And save some of that stew for John."

"Where is he anyway?" Rodney asked, looking around the table. He needed something sweet, a cookie or a piece of cake. That would be the perfect finishing touch.

"Right here," Sheppard called out as he walked into the room. Rodney turned, startled, and was about to yell at the man for stopping his heart like that when he noticed Carson Beckett behind him.

"Carson?"

"Yeah," Sheppard said, smiling and point a thumb behind him. "Look who I found."

The others stood up and made room for the two newcomers to the table. Sheppard immediately grabbed a bowl of stew and started eating.

"I've brought a little treat from Atlantis," Carson announced, setting a box on the table. Rodney could already smell it.

"Cookies!"

"Aye, Rodney. Apparently the cooks whipped up quite the batch. They sent these with me to pass out among you lot."

"Thank you, Carson. And thank you for coming on such short notice. President Nurif is very excited to show you the medical facilities here."

"No doubt the pride and glory of Sateda," Rodney said, a mouth full of double-chocolate chip cookies. Heaven.

Sheppard snorted at that. "Are you sure you're not referring to their military base, or their latest fighting aircraft designs? Because I'm pretty sure the general who gave me a tour of the base said that was Sateda's pride and glory."

"They are very proud of their world," Elizabeth said. Rodney watched her nibble the edge of the cookie and it took a monumental effort for him not to rip it out of her hand and shove the whole thing in his face. He was still ravenously hungry.

"And glorious," Lorne added, causing everyone to burst out laughing.

"I have to admit," Sheppard said after a moment, "this place is impressive. They could be very powerful allies. And unlike the Genii, they seem pretty open and willing to share with us."

An hour later, the stew, bread, and Atlantis cookies had disappeared, and the group sat around the table comfortably chatting. There was no question that Sateda had a very warlike culture, and its military men—much to Sheppard and Lorne's pleasure, no doubt—were given fairly high status and a significant amount of influence. On the other hand, the scientists had been sharp and inquisitive, and they seemed to be well-respected in this society. As they should be.

Rodney was now feeling decidedly full, and he rubbed at his stomach and wondered if he should have eaten that third bowl of stew after all. Carson was giving him a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. The doctor had been hounding him about making more of an effort to lose some weight—not that Rodney had time for that.

Most of their discussion revolved around the Satedans' plans to fight the Wraith. They had all, at one point or another, been told about it. Rodney had dismissed the idea when the scientist giving him the tour of the research facility had mentioned it, and the young man hadn't brought it up again. Now, listening to everyone relate similar conversations, Rodney realized that these people were serious.

"General Tremek asked me to think about it, and to at least talk it over with you guys. They don't just want an alliance against the Wraith. They want us to join them in their fight, right here," Sheppard said. "I told him I'd bring it up with the rest of you but I couldn't make any promises."

"Given what you saw of their military base, what do you think their chances are?" Elizabeth asked.

"No chance. I know they're very proud of their military and the technological advances they've made, but it's not nearly enough. I tried to tell Tremek that, but he's not really willing to listen at the moment. My impression is they're all fired up about this big plan. I told them how Atlantis barely survived the recent siege, but that didn't seem to sway him at all. If he's representative of the rest of the military on this issue, their minds are already made up."

"You told them about the siege of Atlantis?" Elizabeth asked, her eyebrows raised.

Sheppard shrugged. "Not in so many words—don't worry, Elizabeth. I didn't say the name _Atlantis_."

"I only got a glimpse of the city," Carson interrupted, "but if they decide to fight the Wraith here, on their home soil…the amount of casualties would be almost unthinkable."

"I agree, doc," Sheppard said. "The President said they have somewhere around 200,000 people just in the capital. I don't know what the population is elsewhere on the planet, but I'm not convinced they fully understand what the Wraith will do if they try to fight them."

The others quieted down, thinking about the implications of fighting the Wraith on Sateda. Rodney thought back to the research labs and the scientists working diligently on technology they thought might save them or make a difference. The shield technology was little more than an idea and required ZPM-levels of power—something the Satedans were nowhere near. He shook his head. Nothing he had seen at the research facility would save them from the total destruction they were sure to face if they fought the Wraith.

"We've got a few more days here to get to know these people," Elizabeth noted. "Let's do a little more exploring before we make any definite decisions. Rodney, I understand they would like you to return to the research park tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Good. Learn what you can, but don't give them too much. We need this alliance, but I'm not ready to join in the fight just yet."

Rodney waved his hand at her. He knew the rules about sharing technology, although he would admit that if he was in their position and had just encountered a more advanced civilization, he'd probably be demanding help. And he'd grow quickly frustrated at any stalling he encountered.

"Carson, I think the medical facilities are nearby. I wouldn't mind seeing the university and scientific areas either."

"I believe it would be beneficial to visit the city, perhaps talk to the local people," Teyla piped up.

Lorne leaned forward, nodding. "I wouldn't mind doing that, myself," he said.

"Alright," Elizabeth answered. "That sounds like a good plan. John, maybe you could—John?"

Rodney looked over at Sheppard, who was gazing off in the distance. He snapped his head around at the sound of his name.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Were you listening at all?"

"Uh, yeah, I was. Sorry, Elizabeth. Rodney, you and Carson to the research, university and medical facilities. Teyla and Lorne are going to hit the town."

"Right, maybe you could join them."

"Maybe," he said, then took a deep breath and stared intently at Elizabeth. "I was about to leave the base when Tremek—the general—got a call that one of his squadrons had run into trouble off-world. By the time we got to the ring, most of the squadron had returned—one man dead, one with a broken leg, one waking up from a stunner blast. Apparently they unexpectedly ran into a Wraith cruiser, and they managed to fight through a hell of a lot of Wraith to get back. Two of their people were left on the Wraith planet and they were just readying a rescue mission when the last two men came through the gate."

"Were they okay?"

"One guy was. The other looked pretty badly beaten, but the medics told Tremek he was going to be okay."

"Okay," Elizabeth said, and Rodney could almost hear the unasked question in her voice. _Why are you telling us all of this?_

"This squadron was impressive, and the speed with which they rounded up a rescue team was astounding. Afterward, Tremek asked me if I wanted to join one of their squadrons off-world. He said it might be a good chance for me to see firsthand how they operate."

"I don't know, John—"

"The thing is, I think he's right," Sheppard continued before Elizabeth could say anything more. Rodney knew that tactic—stall any decision you think she might make regarding your idea until you were sure you could get her to agree. Sheppard had not quite convinced her yet.

"It's one thing to walk around a military base or a research facility. To actually see them in action and see how they react and how they fight—that could be invaluable information. I don't think Tremek intended me to go off-world tomorrow, but maybe sometime within the next few days. I wouldn't go alone, either. One of our teams and one of their teams, on a simple, straightforward mission without a lot of Wraith could tell us more about these people and their ability to fight than anything else they show us here."

"You've already seen one of their squadrons in action," she countered.

"True, but we didn't know who they were at the time. It would be beneficial to go back out there, pay attention to the details—that kind of thing."

Rodney watched Elizabeth's face carefully. Sheppard had made a compelling argument, and he could see he had won by the look of resignation that finally creased her expression.

"It's your decision," she said, and John nodded in satisfaction.

Rodney hoped to hell Sheppard wouldn't ask him to go along.

* * *

Ronon Dex walked stiffly down the hallway of the central building on base. Adjunct General Tremek had called him in himself, and Ronon's mind was racing. Obviously, it had to have something to do with the last mission. Specialist Nolen had been killed, and Tyre and Denay were still in the hospital, recovering from their wounds.

Soldiers glanced at him then turned away, ignoring him when they realized he wasn't a higher rank. Not that Ronon cared—he hadn't chosen a military career because he wanted people to snap to attention at the sight of him. He tugged on the end of his uniform jacket and turned into the stairwell.

He hated wearing his dress uniform. It was always too warm, too tight across the shoulders, too short at the ankles. His mind floated back to the day before and the disastrous mission. He'd ridden to Central Hospital with Tyre, and then the medics had taken his friend down one hall and directed him to another room.

It had taken all the self-control Ronon had not to shove them away and find Tyre. His friend had looked beyond pale in the medic van on the way over, and the medics had moved urgently around him without saying anything.

The hospital staff had finally managed to get Ronon to sit down and remove his bloody shirt. Ronon himself wasn't injured. He'd tried to tell them that but they'd insisted on seeing for themselves. He had consented with a growl and thrown his shirt—covered with Tyre's blood—into a corner of the small room. The staff had looked him over then left him alone, and Ronon had leaned back in the exam bed.

He must have fallen asleep after that. The next thing he knew, someone was calling his name—a soft, gentle voice. He blinked open his eyes to see Melena leaning over him, apprehension pulling her forehead into a frown. She'd snuck down into the military wing when she'd heard members of Ronon's squadron had been brought in. Ronon had smiled at the sight of her, and despite still feeling the pull of fatigue, he'd forced himself to stay awake.

Melena. He'd hated her the first time he'd seen her. Well, hate was maybe too strong a word. Strongly disliked. She'd been training in Central Hospital and assigned to the military wing for the last part of her nursing certification. Ronon had been injured in a training accident and reluctantly gone to the hospital to have his bruised arm looked at. Lucky for him, Melena had been assigned his case, and she hadn't put up with anything from him.

She'd eventually discovered he had a broken arm, three cracked ribs, and bruising on his stomach that was bad enough to warrant further observation. He'd howled at Melena, threatened to have her fired from the hospital, then threatened to bodily throw her out the window. The supervising doctor had been upset enough to turn Ronon in to his commanding officer, but Melena had calmly drugged Ronon into a deep, peaceful sleep.

When Ronon had woken up the next morning, he'd learned that Melena had defended him viciously from both his commanding officer and the supervising doctor. She might be small, but she was ferocious when she needed to be. She came in later to check on his "head wound" and explained that head wounds were known to cause the most outrageous behavior.

She'd saved his career, and while he knew his commanding officer was suspicious, nothing formal or official had ever been noted in his records. He'd recovered and returned to the barracks a week later, putting most of the incident behind him. By that time, Melena had become an unconditional part of his life, and Ronon was working diligently on learning to rein in his temper. In the last two years, they had become inseparable.

They weren't officially married, but close enough. In Ronon's mind, Melena was family. He reached the top of the stairs and straightened his uniform one last time. General Tremek wasn't known to be a stickler for decorum, but whatever was going on sounded serious. Ronon wouldn't take his chances.

Tremek's office was at the end of the hall, and he knocked before entering carefully. The young kid behind the desk glanced up, waved him into the front room, and then left to inform the general.

Ronon went over the debrief again in his mind. He'd explained to Lieutenant Ren, who was over his regiment, and Division Chief Markel what had happened—the Wraith cruiser, the surprise attack, the retreat back to the ring. He'd told them about Lalket and Denay going down, and how Tyre had distracted the Wraith and given them a chance to make it to the ring. He'd recounted soberly the fight at the ring and Specialist Nolen's death, then his attempt to find Tyre and the final hand-to-hand combat he had endured before getting himself and Tyre back to Sateda. Neither Markel nor Ren had said much—not too uncommon in briefings—and then they'd given him the next day off.

Ronon knew the rest of his squadron, including Tyre now recovering from serious wounds, had all been debriefed and asked the same questions. What more could General Tremek possibly want?

The general suddenly emerged into the waiting room. Ronon stood up and nodded at him, and Tremek ushered him immediately into the large back office. Lieutenant Ren and Division Chief Markel were already there and sitting behind the general's desk. Tremek moved around them and took a seat at the center. Ronon remained standing at attention facing all three of them, not daring to take a seat until specifically offered.

He was not offered a seat. Tremek gathered some papers in front of him, stared at them a moment, then looked up at Ronon.

"Soldier Dex, I have heard your testimony and that of your fellow soldiers regarding the events on Sarif Sur. I regret the loss of your commanding officer, Specialist Nolen. He was a good man."

"Yes, sir," Ronon said, when Tremek paused.

"In such tragic circumstances, however, there is occasionally a cause to celebrate. Ronon Dex, we hereby promote you to the position of Specialist and entrust you with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities expected of that rank. Do you accept?"

Ronon stood frozen for a moment. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, and he wondered if the three men in the room could hear it. Specialist? They were making him a Specialist? That was the last thing he had expected.

"Dex?"

"Uh…sir," Ronon stammered, and he finally forced himself to look at General Tremek. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind, but one finally rose to the forefront. "Tyre was First Sergeant of Squadron One, and his actions saved all of us."

He caught barely concealed grins from Lieutenant Ren and the division chief. Even Tremek seemed to be having a hard time keeping a straight face.

"Am I to understand," Tremek asked, "that you believe Tyre should be the new commanding officer of Squadron One?"

"Yes, sir," Ronon breathed out quickly. What the hell was he thinking, turning down a promotion?

"I believe you'd be correct in that assessment, Ronon. Tyre has been promoted to Specialist and given command of Squadron One."

Tremek paused, and Ronon could tell he was missing something. There was a sense of anticipation in the room, and it floated elusively around him. He opened his mouth, then closed it without a word, and looked a little helplessly down at the three ranking officers.

"You, Ronon Dex, have been given command of Squadron Four. Same regiment and same division, so you'll still be reporting to Lieutenant Ren and Chief Markel here. I ask again, do you accept?"

Ronon looked down in astonishment at them, now fighting a grin of his own. A specialist, at his age? His own command?

"Yes, sir," he answered enthusiastically, and General Tremek laughed out loud.

He stood up and moved around the desk until he was standing in front of Ronon. He leaned forward, pinning the new rank on Ronon's uniform, then handed him his official orders. "Congratulations, Specialist Dex. You deserve this. Go, and serve Sateda well."

Hours later, Specialist Ronon Dex ran through the rain back to the small apartment he shared with Melena. She should be home by now. His finger moved to the ache in his neck and the small white bandage placed over the tattoo of his new rank. Specialist.

Melena was going to scream like a split-tongued _gurval_.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Remember when you were a kid and you'd get $10 but from your grandma. That money would burn holes in your pockets until you'd spent it...Apparently, I have no patience whatsoever when it comes to posting a story. It's burning a hole in my pocket!

Despite the fact that I really have a lot of other things I need to be doing, I'm upping the posting schedule to Monday/Wednesday/Friday. Enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

_Chapter 5_

Four days after John had toured the military base, he stood in front of the stargate with a squadron of twelve soldiers plus their commanding officer—a tall man by the name of Solen Sincha—as well as Lorne and Teyla. They were fully armed, and they waited with patience for the gate to activate.

Tremek had told John he was sending a squadron to a place called Karakor to take out another landed Wraith cruiser. He'd assured John their intel was accurate and the gate was hidden away from the cruiser's position. John wasn't entirely convinced they weren't walking into a trap, and he longed to have a jumper or two follow them in for air support, but after their experience with the Genii, he didn't dare.

"Specialist Sincha," John called out, and the leader of Squadron Two glanced up at the sound of his name.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

"I know I've already asked the general this question, but what should we expect when we step through that ring? I was here a few days ago when another one of your squadrons ran into a Wraith cruiser, and it's not exactly instilling a lot of confidence in me."

Sincha grinned, then rubbed his finger over the stubble on his jaw. "I can't make you any promises, Colonel. We're engaging the Wraith—who knows how that will turn out? I can tell you that my squadron has been to this location a number of times in the last few weeks. We've been monitoring the situation and it looks like the cruiser is getting ready to take off."

"Why have you waited to destroy it?" Teyla asked.

Sincha shrugged. "Officially, for intel-gathering purposes. Unofficially, paperwork. These decisions take time—we're not a bunch of vigilantes, though we may look it at times."

"Say no more," John said, holding up his hands. "Unfortunately, paperwork and bureaucratic decision-making I understand completely."

"Our priority is to destroy that ship and get you and your people back here safely, Colonel."

John could find no argument with that. A sense of unease niggled in his gut but he pushed it off. There were a few unknowns here, but it wasn't totally unlike other missions John had pulled off in the past, and he really wanted to see the Satedans in action again. The squadron he'd run into the first time had been good fighters, but he hadn't known who they were at the time, and he hadn't been watching them that closely. This time was different.

The gate exploded into life, and Sincha waved his men forward. John had been briefly introduced to all of them, but now their names escaped him. He needed a little more than three minutes before a mission to learn twelve names. As the last of Squadron Two filed into the gate, John waved his two teammates toward the gate and they stepped forward onto Karakor.

The change in light was abrupt. It was nearing dawn on Karakor versus mid-morning on Sateda, and the gate was hidden in a shallow cave in between steep, rocky mountain cliffs. Vines grew over the walls, and the air smelled damp and cool. John blinked at the darkness and focused on what he could see, willing his eyes to adjust quickly.

Squadron Two was already moving, leaving two guards by the gate, and John, Teyla, and Lorne rushed to catch up with them. They moved quietly and expertly from the short path through the mountains into rugged, forested terrain. It had a jungle feel to it, reminding John of some of the more remote locations he'd seen in South America, but this world lacked the heat. He was glad for his jacket, actually. It was almost a little chilly.

The ground was covered in thick, wet leaves, making it easy for them to move without sound. Within a few minutes, they were standing near the top of a hill and overlooking a small clearing. At the center sat a Wraith cruiser but no sign of any Wraith. He glanced at Sincha, who smiled and gripped his rifle a little tighter, and John wondered if all Satedan warriors were slightly insane. They all had that glint in their eye that told him they were having way too much fun in these types of situations.

"Our days of sitting on our asses and watching are over," Sincha whispered. "Today we destroy that thing."

The other soldiers grinned and nodded. Sincha waved at them, and the group fanned out—half of them taking up defensive positions, while the other half moved toward the cruiser under as much cover as they could manage.

They waited for awhile, more cautious than John would have expected. When no Wraith came streaming out toward them, Sincha gave the signal to start the operation. The plan was for him, two of his people, and John to plant an explosive at the foot of the cruiser while Lorne, Teyla, and the rest of the squadron offered support and kept a close eye on any Wraith movements.

Sincha hefted the backpack holding the Satedan explosive, and the group ran toward the cruiser. John could feel his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline sharpening all of his senses. When Sincha leaned down and opened his bag, John pulled him back and shook his head.

"We should put the explosives inside the cruiser. Better chance of success," he whispered.

Now Sincha looked at John as if he were the crazy one. "And how are we supposed to get inside?"

"Follow me."

John moved forward quickly, pressing his body against the wall of the ship. They had yet to see any Wraith, but that could just be a matter of time. There had to be some Wraith somewhere around the ship.

A few minutes later, they had moved up to the side of the vessel. John felt along the wall for the door release, and a second later, pulled it down. He almost grinned at the gasps of surprise behind him as the door slid back from the wall.

If Sincha was shocked, he didn't let it slow him down. He immediately covered the door, taking out two surprised drones. John entered after him and waited a moment for the sound of an alarm.

By some miracle, they'd managed not to alert anyone else to their position. John grabbed the stunners off the drones and passed one over to Sincha. "Use this," he whispered. "Not as likely to set off the alarms or alert the other Wraith onboard." He didn't wait for Sincha's agreement, but the man took the stunner without question and was only a few steps behind John.

The ship was relatively empty on the lowest level. They ducked out of sight of two patrols, then moved forward as deep into the bowels of the ship as they dared. They wouldn't have to go far to plant the bomb near a power box large enough to set off a chain reaction. A few minutes later, they found what they needed. While Sincha attached his bomb, John pulled out a couple of packs of C-4 and slapped them to the walls.

"What's that?" Sincha asked as he connected the last wires to the wall of the ship.

"Explosive," John whispered. "Added precaution."

Sincha nodded and they moved back down the hall they'd come. The door to the outside world came into view, the path ahead of them still clear, and John felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.

Too soon. He had barely crossed the threshold of the door when there was a noise behind him. Something smacked him hard from the side, throwing him to the ground, and a stunner blast sailed over his head.

"Thanks," he said, staring up at the shorter of the two men under Sincha's command. The man didn't respond, but grabbed John by the vest and dragged him to his feet. The two of them ran for the woods, Sincha and the other soldier a few steps ahead of them, and the sounds of shouts echoed in the trees as more Wraith appeared.

"Go!" he yelled. "Back to the gate. Teyla, Lorne—"

"Colonel," Lorne's voice immediately sounded in John's ear. "We've got at least a dozen Wraith drones who just ran out of the cruiser."

"Get back to the gate—keep it open. We're on our way."

John ran as he talked. At the snapping sound of a twig behind him, he spun around, shooting at the Wraith that were suddenly converging on their position. He saw Sincha run ahead to kneel down behind a tree. He started shooting, giving John and the other two some cover.

"We need to blow this ship!" Sincha yelled as John caught up to him.

"No, we're too close."

"Then move. My squadron is heading back to the ring and they'll give us some cover, but we need to get rid of this ship before too many more Wraith appear."

The four of them took off running through the woods and back in the general direction of the ring. They paused again behind a fallen log and fired at the Wraith, and Sincha waved his two men on.

"Get to the ring now," he yelled.

John glanced at them as they took off into the trees then peered back the way they had come. A half dozen Wraith were running toward them. Stunner blasts echoed against the trees all around them.

"How about now?" Sincha asked, breathing hard.

"Now's good."

The two ignited their detonators at the same time. There was small muffled boom, a half second pause, and then an explosion that shook the trees and rattled the ground. A blast of heat and light hit John and Sincha even behind cover, and John suddenly felt his body lift into the air.

A second later, he hit the ground hard and his breath whooshed out of him. He lay gasping for a minute, waiting for his lungs to remember how to inflate, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay, Sheppard?"

John nodded and pushed himself up off the ground. The Wraith who had been following them were nowhere in sight, and John wondered if they'd been killed or knocked to the ground, or if they'd run back to their ship when they'd heard the explosion. He shook his head. It didn't matter now.

He and Sincha started running for the gate. He could hear fire crackling behind him as the ship burned. That had been one hell of an explosion. Maybe they hadn't needed his C-4 after all. They were joined a few seconds later by the two members of Sincha's squadron who had also infiltrated the cruiser, and the four of them moved quickly through the trees.

"I told you two to go back to the ring," Sincha growled.

"Yes, sir," they both answered, offering no more explanation or excuse.

"_Colonel Sheppard, what is your position?"_

John grabbed his radio at the sound of Teyla's voice. His feet pounded against the ground, jolting his voice when he spoke. "We're running like hell toward the gate. Where are you?"

"Major Lorne and I are near the mouth of the mountain path with most of Specialist Sincha's squadron. We have seen no sign of the Wraith yet."

"Good. We should be at your position in—"

He caught a flash of white off to his side before something barreled straight into him, flinging his body through the trees. He landed in a heap at the base of a large trunk, and rolled over in time to see three Wraith converge on the small group. Sincha was already firing, but another Wraith was coming up behind him.

John rolled to his knees, bringing his P90 up and firing into the Wraith sneaking up behind Sincha. The drone dropped to ground, and John swung his rifle around toward the other two. Teyla and Lorne were both screaming through the radio piece in his ear. John saw Sincha pull a knife from his belt and lunge insanely at the Wraith's midsection.

The blade sunk into white flesh, and the Wraith screeched. It backhanded Sincha and John's finger tightened on his trigger, unleashing a torrent of bullets as soon as the Satedan was out of the way. The man who had pushed Sheppard out of the way of the Wraith stunner blast back on the cruiser was also firing his rifle. The drone jerked in the air then slowly dropped to the ground.

John was already standing and surveying their surrounding. The other soldier of Sincha's was out cold, and his friend lowered his rifle to kneel next to him. Sincha stood up and wiped his knife blade on his pants before sliding it back into its sheath on his belt. John nodded but he continued to search the trees.

"There were three Wraith," he said. "I saw three Wraith come through the trees."

The others glanced around, but there was no sign of the third Wraith. Sincha had moved over to the Wraith behind him, kicking it in the side.

"This one's still alive," he snarled, and John looked up in time to see the drone tap its chest.

The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. "Sincha, get away from there!" John cried out. The Satedan looked up in confusion, not seeing the blinking light of the Wraith's self-destruct.

John did the only thing he could think of in the split second before the self-destruct went off. He charged. He could feel his body moving but he wondered if he would be fast enough. Sincha's eyes grew wide at the sight of John bearing down on him, and then John caught the man in the gut in a tackle that would have made the NFL proud, sending the two of them flying into the air.

John felt the small explosion behind him a half second before he heard it. Sincha hit the ground first, and John landed on top of him, his body covering the other man. He barely registered the impact before his back exploded into a million stabs of agony, and he screamed even as his vision began to gray.

.

.

.

Something was pushing at his chest, rough hands digging into his flesh. Each little movement caused his back to ignite in pain, and he bit his lip to hold back the cry threatening to spill out.

He remembered the Wraith. The self-destruct. Solen Sincha standing next to it.

"Sheppard? Are you awake? What was that?" the man in question yelled, his mouth no more than a few inches from John's head.

John groaned at the knife-edged throbbing building behind his eyes. "Sincha?" he muttered.

"You want to get off me now?"

John cracked open his eyes and saw thick, green trees come into focus. He was lying on the ground on something warm and beating. Wait. Not ground.

John lifted his head high enough to see Sincha sprawled on the ground beneath him. His hands were pushing against John's shoulders, trying to get the man to roll off of him. John moved his own arms and pushed against the ground.

His back burned. He moaned at the sensation of skin ripping from muscle and would have fallen back on top of Sincha if the other squadron man hadn't stepped in to help. They rolled John off of Sincha and onto the ground on his side, and John felt his vision beginning to waver again.

_God, that hurt. What the hell happened? _His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and his headache was growing.

"Sir, are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine, Soldier. How's Halv?"

"Unconscious. That Wraith knocked him pretty hard against the tree."

"He break anything?"

"Not that I could tell. Nothing obvious."

The voices of the two men floated above John, but he ignored them. He breathed heavily, warding off a sudden dizziness. His back was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and it shook him slightly.

"Sheppard? Where are you hurt?"

"His back. It's a bloody mess."

More hands touched his body and rolled him back onto his front. John squeezed his eyes shut at the pain that lanced through him and forced himself to keep breathing.

"We need to get these two to a defensible position," Sincha said. John heard the burst of static from the man's radio, then a click. "Squadron Two, we are pinned down with two injured. What's your status?"

The voice crackled but came through loud enough. _"We've got the path to the ring well defended. We can hold the incoming Wraith off for awhile yet, but there's no way we can get to your position. We're cut off."_

"Hold the path, and send word back to Sateda that we're going to need reinforcements."

The radio cut out a few seconds later, and John suddenly felt arms lifting him up. His feet scrambled beneath him as he tried to support his own weight. They were still in a forest full of an unknown number of Wraith, and John couldn't afford to curl up on the ground, as much as his body was begging him too.

The dizziness continued, making it almost impossible for him to walk unaided, but he stumbled along as fast as he could. Ahead of him, he saw Sincha's man carrying the other one over his shoulders.

"Left, up the hill," Sincha called out. John tripped on a rock under his feet and he felt Sincha's grip tighten. "You still with us, Sheppard?" he whispered.

"Yeah," John breathed.

Within minutes, they'd climbed up the small hill where an outcropping of boulders gave them a certain amount of cover. Through the muddled haze that had settled in his brain, John could see it was a good spot—easy to defend if they were spotted, but not immediately visible to passersby.

Sincha lowered John to the ground when they reached the top, and John pushed himself back to lean sideways against the rocks. His back screamed its protest at the movement, but he sagged against the cold stone. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. The other squadron man was still unconscious, and his friend set him down carefully next to John.

The soldier checked the man over, but there was not much anyone could do for either of them now. He glanced up at John. "That was a hell of thing you did, sir, knocking Specialist Sincha away from that blast. How did you know?"

"Unfortunately, it's not the first time I've seen their self-destruct up close."

"Thank you, sir, for…you know…" the younger man bit his lip at a sudden loss for words and nodded his head at Sincha instead.

"Yeah, I know," John answered. He rested his head against the cold stone, letting the chill seep in and clear his thoughts.

"Are you two done with your yapping? We've got Wraith crawling all over the place down here. I could use a little help if you're not too busy," Sincha snapped, and John grinned.

The pain in his back was starting to ebb away a little, but he ripped open a packet of Ibuprofen and dry swallowed the pills anyway. The dizziness was also receding, but he sat still for another minute to give his body a chance to gather itself.

He'd lost his radio somewhere between the tackle and the climb to their current position. His P90, though, was still attached to his vest, and he checked his clip for ammo. At least half full, and he had two more clips in his pocket. Between that and whatever ammo the other guys had, John hoped that would be enough for them to hold off the Wraith until help arrived.

Whatever criticism someone might have regarding the Satedan military, rescue operations were not one of them. It didn't take long for the Wraith to figure out where they were holed up, but it was only a few minutes after that, that Sincha's radio burst to life.

"_Dex to Sincha. What's your position?"_

John leaned forward as much as his back would let him to lean over the rocks. His P90 was wedged between two rocks, holding it steady. John let out a burst of bullets, just hearing Sincha's response. The white head of the Wraith that had popped up from the bushes fell backward against John's onslaught.

He took a deep breath then squeezed the trigger again. He grit his teeth against the vibrating pain that shook his body, and another Wraith dropped. The P90 clicked, and John ducked down behind the rocks to load another clip.

"Time to move," Sincha ordered. He sprayed rifle shots into the trees in a wide arc, then grabbed John's vest and hauled him to his feet.

John just managed to hold back the cry of pain, but his clenched jaw was beginning to ache at the effort. It wasn't helping his headache, either. The dizziness stayed at bay, though, and he was able to climb over the rocks protecting them and start running for the gate. He could hear Sincha behind him, firing and running, occasionally throwing out a hand to steady John. The other two were ahead of them, the one still unconscious and slung over his friend's shoulders.

They burst through the trees at the base of the rocky cliff of the mountain, and John knew they were close. He could feel warm blood dripping down his back and into the waistband of his pants, and his skin felt torn to shreds. He stumbled again, and Sincha jerked on his arm, keeping him upright.

They rounded a corner and a group of Satedans suddenly appeared, heading their way. John's relief was short-lived, however, as the group paused and began firing into the trees off to their side. John could hear the thudding of bodies breaking through branches and hitting the ground, but he didn't dare look.

The other group soon joined them, and John recognized the one in the lead. The man was tall with long dreadlocks pulled away from his face, and John remembered how he'd come barreling through the gate four days earlier before anyone could send a rescue team, his comrade slung over his shoulders. Dex, John thought. Ronon, maybe? That sounded right.

Ronon's face was set in grim determination, and he fired his rifle into the trees without breaking his stride.

"Keep going!" he yelled, running past John and Sincha. Wraith stunner blasts hit the ground around them, spurring them all on, and John flinched at the explosion of rifle shots that echoed behind him.

Two P90s spat out bullets, and John looked up to see Teyla and Lorne standing at the edge of the ravine path leading to the gate. His back had moved beyond all-consuming pain to a kind of numbness that he knew was not a good sign. His legs were slowing down despite his best efforts to keep pushing forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of their rescuers get struck in the chest with a stunner and fly backward onto the ground. With a shout, Sincha surged ahead of him toward the man on the ground. John could hear Teyla shouting at him to keep moving. The white hair of the Wraith bobbed just inside the cover of the trees, then burst out of the trees around them, and he lifted his P90 at the one racing toward Sincha and the downed rescuer.

The Wraith jerked in its steps as he pulled the trigger, and he saw Lorne move around to the other side to finish the thing off. John was breathing hard now, and his legs were beginning to feel rubbery. The head of the trail was no more than thirty feet ahead. He dared a glance behind him and saw the big man with the hair was the only one behind him.

Ronon was running toward John and the others. They were twenty feet away now, and Sincha's and Dex's squadron were pouring into the safety of the ravine. Teyla and Lorne were still shooting to give them some cover and John sucked in a deep breath.

_Almost there, almost there, almost there, _he recited to himself_._

Ten feet away.

He heard a yelp behind him, and Teyla and Lorne both turned and fired into the trees. John stumbled to a stop and looked behind him. Ronon was on the ground, less than five feet away. He was pushing himself up from the ground, but his left leg wasn't responding, and John surmised he must have been hit with a stunner.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the brightest move John had ever made, but in the heat of battle, time was not a luxury. In a split second, he saw Ronon was down and he was the closest man to him. He spun on his heel and stumbled toward the Satedan. Ronon was almost up, but the stunner blasts continued to erupt around them and he was hit again in the same leg.

John caught him just as he fell back to the ground, and with a grunt of pain and adrenaline, he slung Ronon's arm over his shoulder and dragged the man upright and toward the safety of the ravine trail.

"Colonel!"

"John!"

He heard both Teyla's and Lorne's screams, and a rumble of footsteps behind him. The Wraith cruiser had obviously not been the only source of Wraith on this planet, which might explain what the cruiser was doing here in the first place. Sateda needed some serious help with their intel.

The going felt interminably slow, and the numbness in his back fell away, leaving nothing but agonizing shards raking across his skin. Ronon's arm across his shoulder and added weight weren't helping matters, but they stumbled forward in silence.

John's focus had narrowed to the ground in front of him, and he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He didn't realized he'd reached the ravine until the sound around him changed, the gunshots taking on a muffled quality.

Hands grabbed at him and Ronon, and John looked up in surprise. They'd made it. The gate was active and beckoning to him, and all at once, his strength gave way.

"Colonel!" Lorne called out, wrapping his arm around John's waist. The rescue squadron had grabbed Ronon and were a few feet ahead.

John tried to stand, but his legs were shaking too badly. He felt another arm snake around his waist from the other side, and Teyla's strong grip kept him on his feet. John heaved in oxygen, and as the group poured through the wormhole, he had never felt so relieved to feel himself whipped coolly to safety.

The gate on the other side was a mass of chaos and John's legs collapsed under him after only a few feet. He leaned his cheek against the cool stone and closed his eyes. They'd made it. He'd made it. Calls for stretchers and medics echoed around him, and he blinked open his eyes to see the face of a man lying a few feet away come into focus. Ronon Dex.

Ronon sat up a little and stared intently at John. He looked like he wanted to say something, but people were buzzing around them and John heard Carson's unmistakable brogue in the mix getting closer. Just as John was about to turn away, Ronon looked up and caught his eye, nodding in gratitude.

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

Carson Beckett rubbed weary eyes as he made his way back to the suite of rooms in the palace the Atlanteans had been set up in. It had been a horrendously long night, compounded by his insistence on sitting up in a chair for most of it. He fumbled at the door for a moment and almost fell to the floor when it was suddenly jerked open and out of his hand.

"Carson!"

"Good morning, Rodney."

"You're back."

"Astute observation."

"And grumpy," Rodney muttered as Carson stepped past him and into the room.

Carson heard the door shut behind him and the sound of footsteps ahead. Teyla, Lorne, and Elizabeth appeared in the main sitting room in various states of disarray, and Carson realized none of them had had much sleep.

"How's John?" Elizabeth asked tightly.

"He's fine," Carson answered, waving the group back to their seats. He lowered himself into one of the sofas and collapsed into the soft comfort it offered. Teyla handed him a warm mug of tea, and he smiled at her in gratitude.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"No, I've eaten. Thank you."

"Enough with the chit-chat. Tell us about Sheppard," Rodney griped, causing the others to roll their eyes, albeit with a smile.

"There's really not much to tell," he said. "We pulled about two dozen pieces of shrapnel from his back. Most of them weren't very deep, but a few required some stitches. He slept most of the night but I had to give him some fairly heavy duty painkillers in order to keep him still enough to take the shrapnel out."

The others grimaced at the image of Carson digging into Sheppard's back. Carson pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. He really needed to lie down and catch a few hours of sleep.

"And he's fine?" Rodney asked. "If he's so okay, why did you feel the need to stay the entire night at the hospital with him? And where is he, by the way?"

"He was drugged, in pain, and in an unfamiliar hospital. I couldn't leave the lad alone like that. And he's still at the hospital. He needs rest, and he won't get that here—although I have to admit, he acquiesced fairly quickly when I told him he wasn't allowed to attend the final negotiations this afternoon."

"I'm sure he did," Elizabeth responded drily.

"The hospital staff said they'd send him here this evening, but I doubt he'll be much fun to be around, so brace yourselves."

The others nodded, knowing all too well what John was like when he was hurt and tired. Lorne and Rodney soon wandered back to their rooms, followed a few minutes later by Teyla. Carson felt his eyes beginning to slide shut, and he snapped them open quickly only to see Elizabeth watching him carefully.

"What time are the final negotiations at?" he asked.

"In a little less than two hours. You look exhausted, Carson. Get some rest."

"Aye, that's the plan," he answered, but he made no move to push himself out of the sofa. He leaned his head back, wondering if maybe he should just take a nap right there. It was comfortable enough.

"John's really okay? We can arrange to have him go back to Atlantis early if we need to. President Nurif has already offered."

"Stubborn bugger wanted to come back here last night but couldn't even push himself up off the hospital bed. I offered to send him back to Atlantis as well but he wouldn't hear of it. He intends to see this alliance all the way through to the end. He was impressed with their off-world military teams—at least from what I could gather between all the cursing as I dug the bits of Wraith armor out. He was adamant that I tell you he'll be there tomorrow for the final feast and celebration."

"Will he be well enough for that?"

"Probably not, but he'll be standing on his own two feet. There won't be much any of us can do to keep him in bed. I've got him on antibiotics as well, so hopefully we've nipped any infection that might set in. A raging fever would be the only thing capable of keeping him down."

Carson paused, replaying the conversations he'd had with John the night before. After a moment, he looked up at Elizabeth with wide eyes. "I think he's starting to come around to this idea of standing up to the Wraith and taking the fight to them."

"But you're not convinced," Elizabeth said, a statement more than a question.

"Are you?"

"No, I'm not. I think the President is less confident in this plan as well. He seemed to be wavering a little when we talked yesterday. He asked me dozens of questions about our own experience with the Wraith siege."

"Did you convince him?"

"His doubts were already there. He's not military—he's a diplomat and a politician. I can certainly understand his reticence about jumping into an all-out war. His head of military, however—Chieftain Madal—is quite passionate about their plan. Sateda's culture is imbued with tales of victorious battles and the strength and courage of their warriors. Regardless of Nurif's hesitation, I think Madal speaks for most of the people. I don't think they're going to back down from this."

Carson sighed. He would never understand man's impulse to throw himself into violence, to kill and be killed in the most brutal of manners. Maybe that was why he was a doctor. "I know, Elizabeth. There are just so many people here. The amount of casualties they're going to suffer…"

Elizabeth stood up and held a hand out to him. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet. "Get some rest, Carson."

Carson nodded numbly and allowed Elizabeth to push him toward his room. A soft, warm bed beckoned to him, and he barely managed to slip his shoes off before crawling under the covers and drifting off into a deep sleep.

* * *

Melena was sitting at the front desk of the emergency bay, staring off at the wall. The last few days had been filled with way more excitement than she needed. First, it was the fanfare over the arrival of the off-worlders and the reports of a strong, new alliance. The capital had been flooded with people—mostly tourists—hoping to catch a glimpse of the group, or of the President escorting them around.

She had no idea what people expected to see. The off-worlders looked like any off-worlders. Like any Satedan really. She'd seen one of them briefly—a doctor touring the hospital. She'd hoped the crowds would disappear after the first day or two, but even that morning, she'd had to push her way through throngs of visitors just to get to work on time.

"Melena, what are you doing down here in the emergency bay?" a voice called out, breaking through her thoughts.

"Hali, hi!" she said, smiling.

"Are you working down here now?"

"No," Melena laughed. Hali was small but energetic, constantly bouncing from one side of the room to the other. "I'm just covering a shift for someone."

Hali came around the desk and sat on the empty chair next to Melena. She leaned forward, glancing around with suspicion. "I hear this is your last week at the hospital."

Melena laughed. Hali was always a little too dramatic for her, even as young girls in school together. "You have heard correctly. I switch over to Commander Kell's personal staff next week and will finish off my physician certification there."

"You don't sound very excited about that."

Melena sighed, her early jubilance draining out of her quickly. "Honestly, not really. I like working here. On Kell's staff, I'll barely have an opportunity to put my medical knowledge to use, but here, in this hospital…the people I can help…"

"So don't go. Stay here with us, Melena."

"I would, but Ronon is adamant. He traded almost everything we owned to get me that job. I can't turn away from that now."

She replayed again in her mind the arguments she and Ronon had had about this job assignment. They had both dug in their heels at first, and Melena had sworn she wouldn't give in, but Ronon had worn her down. When they'd stopped fighting, he'd begged and shared with her for the first time his misgivings about the great Satedan plan to fight the Wraith.

She had never heard him question his superiors before. Not like this. The discussions that followed had been intense and frank, and Melena had realized how deep-seated his concerns were. He more than anyone except a few other members of his regiment knew what it meant to fight the Wraith. It had been Ronon's absolute belief that Sateda could not win against them, that they would be destroyed completely for the very attempt, and that Melena's only chance for survival was to work for Kell, that had finally convinced her to meet with Kell about the job.

And after meeting the commander only once, she'd realized he believed the same things Ronon did about the Wraith. He didn't say anything—not directly—but Melena was smart and she heard the things he hadn't said. Kell's personal staff wasn't preparing for the war here on Sateda—as he'd told everyone from the newest recruit to President Nurif himself. He was preparing to survive.

She got the job. Then she'd learned how far Kell's preparations went. An alternate base on another world, supplies, housing, a trade network already in the works. Kell was ready for Sateda to fall without him.

"Hey, Melena? Hello?"

Melena shook herself and looked over at her friend. "What?"

"Lost you there for a minute. Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said, not sounding convinced even to herself.

"Look, do me a favor, will you? Talk to Ronon again. Tell him you want to stay here."

"Hali…"

"Promise me, Melena. Promise you'll at least talk to him."

Hali was relentless when she wanted to be. "Fine, I'll talk to him again," Melena conceded, though in the back of her mind she knew she wouldn't. The decision had been made.

"Good." Hali leaned back in her seat and clasped her hands. "How is Ronon these days?"

"Trying to scare me into the afterlife early," Melena said, glad to be moving onto a new topic. "He's been in the hospital twice this week already."

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, you know Ronon. He's fine. He ran into the Wraith and got into some scuffles with them, although he never tells me how close to them he gets. He had a few bruises the first time, and then yesterday, he got hit in the leg with one of those stunner guns." She shook her head at the sight of Ronon lying in the hospital bed the night before, insisting he was fine despite a total lack of feeling in his leg. She'd sat with him for the entire evening, mostly to ensure he didn't try to sneak out and then get in trouble with his regiment commander.

"Is he still here?"

"No, he checked himself out this morning, and tried very hard not to limp out the door. He is so stubborn."

"And you are so patient. How long have you two been—"

Hali's question was interrupted by a commotion at the door. The two women looked up in anticipation, and Melena felt her heart quicken its pace. This was why she hated working in the emergency bay. Her training rounds in medical school in this section had been some of the worse.

The doors flew open and a gaggle of people surrounding a gurney flew into the room. Melena and Hali jumped up and ran toward them. She noted with growing dread that almost all of them were wearing military uniforms.

"What happened?" A gruff voice demanded, and Melena recognized the lead doctor over the emergency bay.

"Vehicle accident, we think—we're not sure. It happened on base about twenty minutes ago."

"What do you mean you _think_ it was a vehicle accident?" the doctor griped.

"Looked like a vehicle accident when we got there. One of those two-man hoppers—it was completely mangled. But then someone said they thought they'd heard a rifle shot right around the time the hopper flipped."

Melena raced along the gurney as they pushed it into one of the trauma rooms. The injured man's uniform was torn and covered in blood. She searched his face, wondering if he was in Ronon's regiment, but couldn't recognize him. An oxygen mask covered half of his face, and dirt and blood obscured the rest. He had a deep gash on the side of his head that was bleeding heavily into the gurney. As they pulled to a stop in the trauma room, she immediately grabbed a bandaged and pressed it against his head, attempting to staunch the flow.

"What are his injuries?"

"Two broken legs, both below the knee," one of the military uniforms answered, and Melena recognized the medic insignia on his jacket. "His right lung is having trouble inflating all the way, and we suspect he might be bleeding internally into his stomach. His right arm, shoulder and ribs are heavily bruised, possibly broken as well. He's been unconscious since we found him."

Melena catalogued the list of injuries and tried to anticipate what the lead doctor would need first. She began gathering supplies and equipment from nearby cupboards, laying them out in neat rows within hand's reach of the gurney.

"What's his name?" the doctor called out as more nurses and doctors poured into the room and began pushing the military officers out.

"Tremek," the medic yelled. "It's Adjunct General Kade Tremek."

* * *

John wandered aimlessly through the military tent barracks. In the growing darkness, it was getting harder and harder to distinguish the small numbers over the doors. There were very few people around as well—some kind of holiday associated with the ending feast the next morning and the official establishment of an alliance between Sateda and Canada.

Canada—that had been McKay's idea. They couldn't reveal they were from Atlantis, but they had to go by something. McKay had bypassed any discussions on what to say by telling the lead scientists of Sateda that they were from Canada.

_I suck at lying,_ he'd said. _It will be easier if we say we're all from Canada. We have to tell them something when they ask._

He'd had a point, although that hadn't stopped either John or Lorne, or even Beckett, from giving him a hard time. McKay muttered something about it being simple jealousy, and then had left the room quickly. John had followed soon after. Lorne and Beckett's eyes had both lit up with mischief, and he knew they were already planning some kind of practical joke when they returned to home. The less John knew, the better.

He turned down another row and searched the top of the tents for their identifying numbers. His back pulled and twitched, but the pain was buried under the dose of painkillers he'd taken right before leaving the hospital. He could feel the heavy grogginess hovering in his arms and legs as he walked. Despite having slept most of the day, he felt achy and tired and ready to turn in for the night. It was getting colder too, and the brown shirt and jacket the hospital had given him to replace the ones the shrapnel and Beckett had cut to shreds was a little too thin for the brisk evening air. He had hoped to visit Ronon Dex in the hospital but the man had been released hours earlier while John was still sleeping off Beckett's magic pain pills. Some things just needed to be said face to face.

John looked around at the endless rows of tents. This was ridiculous. Here he was wandering through tent city in the middle of the military base with no clue as to which way to go. Tremek had given him free rein to come and go as he pleased anywhere on the base, and the gate guard had immediately recognized him from his earlier visit. He'd even saluted him, which John had found surprising and a little odd.

He pushed back the flap of the nearest tent, intent on asking for help. The inside was pitch black and obviously empty. The barracks had cleared out quickly at the announcement of a holiday the following day, but surely someone had stayed behind. John continued down the row, looking for any sign that someone was around. It was already dusk, and he'd have to turn around soon if he didn't find Ronon's tent.

He'd intended to ask Tremek for help in locating the man, but the general's office had been dark and the desk attendant hadn't known where his boss had gone. He'd thought he was somewhere on the base, but he had no way of reaching him. He had given John Ronon's tent number and sent him off in the general direction of the tent barracks.

John turned another corner and sighed at seeing another long row of dark tents. He was about to give up when a small light blinked on at one end of the row. In the growing darkness, light from the inside could be seen spilling out from cracks between the flaps drawn over the windows.

Out of instinct more than anything else, John approached the tent carefully. The grass field muffled his footsteps, and he breathed lightly through his mouth. There was no one around the outside of the tent, but as he got closer, he could hear raised voices within.

"I just heard from our man at the hospital. Tremek is still alive," the first voice muttered. He sounded nervous.

"What do you mean, _alive_? He is supposed to be dead," an angry voice hissed back, and the hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end. Tremek? Dead? What were they talking about? He moved off the main path and slid along the side of the tent, listening intently.

"Sir, his hopper was completely wrecked. I'm not sure how he survived the crash. The doctors are saying his injuries are serious—he is not expected to survive the night."

"You better hope he doesn't survive the night," the angry voice answered. "He already knows way too much. If he talks, if anyone else finds out…it would just be a matter of time before they connect us to Langus, and with the Wraith bearing down on us, what chance do you think we'll have then of surviving anything?"

There was a pause and a shuffling of feet. John felt his own heart quicken. He recognized that name. Langus. Tremek's image rose in his mind and he saw the man's shock at hearing the news of his friend's suicide.

So, not a suicide. Murder.

As soon as the word crossed his mind, John realized how much trouble he could get in right at that moment. Overhearing murder plans was not something criminals took lightly, and these guys were operating from a military base. Whoever they were, John was sure they did not want anyone to know who they were. He suddenly felt naked without his weapons. He didn't even have a knife, and a radio wouldn't be such a bad thing either. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face, wishing he hadn't taken that last dose of painkillers.

He backed away, gritting his teeth at the sudden flare of pain along his upper back. He let his breath out slowly and paused, listening for sounds inside the tent. He could hear people talking again, but their voices were too low to make out. Now was as good a time as any for a strategic retreat.

John poked his head around the side of the tent and looked down the row. There were two more tents in one direction, then open fields. The other direction led back toward the main part of the base, and the row disappeared into darkness. The sun had set quickly, and John was grateful for that now. There was not a person in sight in either direction.

He stepped out and turned toward the main part of the base when he heard a sharp exhale behind him. His heart leaped into his throat but he flexed his knees automatically and brought his hands up to defend himself. He spun around, and a man leapt back, just barely dodging John's fist. John swayed, the sudden movement throwing him off balance, and he cursed the painkillers still flowing through his blood, dulling his reactions. He heard a shout inside the tent, then pounding footsteps.

Crap. The man in front of him pulled a knife, and the metal glinted off the low light slipping out of the tent. John tensed, weighing his options. Bare hands against a knife was never a good idea. Being outnumbered—also not a good idea.

_Run like hell it is, _he thought.

Too late, he heard a rustle of clothing behind him, and the man in front of him grinned. Before John had a chance to spin around, he heard a whistle of air and then something smacked him hard in the back.

He flew forward with a cry and clawed the ground at the agony that pulsed through re-opened wounds. He could feel a few of them oozing warmly, and he grimaced. His breathing stuttered in his throat, and he inhaled grass and dirt. Bright lights suddenly shone in his face, and he opened his eyes to see the flap of the tent fly open and two large, booted legs standing in the doorframe.

"What have we here?"

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

"Ronon!"

Ronon turned around at the sound of his name being shouted from across the street, and saw his two former squadron-mates darting between traffic toward him. Hemi bounced up toward him, a grin splitting his face and a red flush warming his cheeks. Rakai lumbered a few feet behind him, narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming vehicle, then bellowed at the machine as it flew past him.

"Hey," Ronon greeted.

"Or should we call you Specialist Dex," Hemi said.

"Specialist Dex, at your command," Rakai said, saluting.

Ronon shook his head but couldn't help the grin pulling at his mouth. Hemi and Rakai had obviously heard about the unexpected holiday the following day and were getting a head start on it.

"You two stink of ale already," he said, swinging an open fist half-heartedly at Rakai, who was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, saluting Ronon, and grinning like a fool.

"Care to join us?" Hemi asked.

Ronon would, but he had some final paperwork to finish regarding the rescue mission of the day before and he didn't want to put it off. It had been his first official mission as a specialist after all. He thought of Melena at the hospital. She only had a few hours left on her shift.

"Nah," he answered. "Got stuff to do at the base."

"Oh, right. Yes, sir, Specialist Dex."

"Keep it up, Rakai, and I'll stick you in the brig. That is within my power now."

Hemi giggled at the sudden look of trepidation on Rakai's face. It had only been a few days since his promotion, but Ronon realized he'd missed these guys. He wanted to be a specialist and command his own squadron, but he'd enjoyed working with Hemi and Rakai and Ara and Morika and Tyre. Especially Tyre.

"How's Tyre doing?"

"He's getting better," Rakai answered. "Ara and Morika went to see him this afternoon. Did you know they promoted him while he was lying flat on his back in bed? He was mortified."

"When does he get out of the hospital?" Ronon asked.

"Maybe another week," Hemi said. "Squadron One is taking it easy in the meantime. We got three new recruits, fresh out of training."

"They any good?"

Hemi grinned, and glanced at his friend, who was staring off down the street. "Once Rakai teaches them to change their own diapers, they might do alright."

"Hey!" Rakai said, spinning around to look at his two friends. Ronon laughed and wondered if he could afford to put off that paperwork for another day or two. A few drinks with Rakai and Hemi were never dull.

"Heard your first mission was a success. Saved Specialist Sincha and one of the off-worlders—that can't look too bad on your record."

"Except maybe the part where you got hit by a Wraith stunner," Rakai added. Ronon rolled his eyes, ignoring him, and Rakai wandered over to a store window.

"I miss anything in the last couple of days? You two were always good with the gossip," Ronon said.

Hemi looked up at the sky, pursing his mouth and considering. "I don't think…oh, wait. Did you hear about Commander Langus?"

"Gilm Langus, down south?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Hemi answered. "Word is he committed suicide."

Ronon jerked in surprise, almost stumbling back a step or two. The news hit him like a slap. Most of Hemi and Rakai's gossip involve trivial inanities. But this…

"Not possible," Ronon said. He'd worked with Commander Langus last year. The man had been more of a politician than a tactical genius, but he'd worked hard and they'd gotten along. Ronon had been wary of him at first. The military commander had been working diligently on a way to convince the upper ranks that their plan to fight the Wraith was flawed and heading for imminent catastrophe. Ronon had dismissed his ideas at first, but in the end, he'd been convinced. Absolutely convinced.

He was hardly the type of man who would kill himself. At least that wasn't Ronon's impression of him.

"It's true. They say they found him swinging from a rope in his study, and at least two empty bottles of Brose Endel at his feet. Didn't you work with him last year?"

Ronon nodded. Commander Langus dead? Any thoughts of heading to the bar with Hemi and Rakai fled from his mind. The reality of Langus's death settled heavily on him and he sighed. He had paperwork to finish, and then maybe he'd ask around about Langus, see if he could verify the information.

"Hey, Ronon, Hemi—let's go. The evening is drawing to a close," Rakai called out. He waved his hand toward the corner of the street where a busy bar sat.

"It's not even dark out, Rakai," Hemi returned. "Ronon?"

"Go. I've got work to do, and then Melena and I are meeting up."

"Oh, Melena. That explains it. You're always wanting to be with Melena."

Ronon laughed, feeling his dark mood lighten a little. He wondered what Melena was doing right at that moment. In a few hours, they could put the events of the last few days behind them and just enjoy some quiet time together. Tomorrow, after all, was a holiday.

He shoved Hemi away playfully, and the two staggered down the street, disappearing into the bar at the corner. Ronon hailed one of the public transport vans and was soon rushing through the streets of the capital and toward the base, and his thoughts returned to Langus's death.

It was still too unbelievable. He wouldn't believe it—not until he heard it from official sources. Gossip always ran rampant through the military ranks, and most of it was usually based on very little truth.

The base was darker than usual, and the gate guard saluted him and waved him through after Ronon stepped out of the transport van. Most of the buildings looked like they were locked up for the holiday the following day, and Ronon imagined most of the personnel had gone into town to get as far away from the confines of the barracks as possible. He glanced up at the central building, expecting to see Tremek's office lit, but even that was dark. It seemed all ranks were taking advantage of the free time.

He walked quickly to the tents, his feet taking him automatically down the correct row. His paperwork would be sitting on his new desk at the back of Squadron Two's tent. The sky had grown dark and cloudy in the time it had taken him to get from the city to the base, and now he felt the first gusts of wind and spit of rain that promised a ferocious storm was on its way.

Squadron Two's tent was about two thirds of the way down the row and completely dark, like almost all of the other tents he passed. He imagined a few of them held lone occupants reading or working late like he was. He flipped the light on and sat at his desk, but as soon as he touched pen to paper, his mind went blank.

Ronon sat back, replaying the events again in his mind. It had been a relatively easy rescue mission, up until the very end. Ronon had taken his eyes off the trees for no more than two seconds, but that had been enough. The next thing he knew, he'd been falling to the ground, his left leg completely numb.

And then the off-worlder, the man he had been rescuing, had turned around and run back toward him. Ronon had been hit again in the same leg as he'd attempted to push himself up off the ground, and the stranger with the dark hair and piercing eyes had grabbed him, hefting him up with more strength than Ronon would have believed possible.

Sheppard—they'd said his name was John Sheppard. The two had stumbled toward the gorge with Wraith stunner bolts exploding all around them. He remembered hearing Sheppard's stuttering breaths, harsh pants in his ear. It was then that he'd felt warm liquid on his arm, and he'd looked over to see the off-worlder's back covered in blood. They'd made it to the gorge and the protection of the high cliff walls, and all of them had pushed through the ring back to Sateda. Sheppard had collapsed soon after getting through the ring himself, and then they'd been swarmed with personnel demanding to know what had happened and who was hurt and what was going on.

The questions had stirred something within Ronon, and he'd looked around for the man who'd saved his life. He liked to believe his people would have come back for him, but this man—this stranger—who was injured and in pain and barely staying on his own feet, had run back toward the Wraith and come for him. There was no doubt in his mind that things would have ended up very badly for him otherwise.

A distant shout shook Ronon from his thoughts, and he looked up from the blank page in front of him. His mind was too jumbled to fill out the report. He needed to let things settle a little more before writing anything down. He stood, slid into his jacket, and flipped the light off. As a specialist, he was allowed to keep a weapon at his desk, and he slid open the bottom drawer and grabbed his handgun.

He'd just reached the door of his tent when he heard another shout, then a muffled crash. His hand tightened around his gun, his mind racing. He had switched, without a conscious thought, from off-duty-Ronon to Specialist Dex. He paused, listening intently.

Silence.

He slipped out of his tent and into the shadows, peering down the row of dark tents. He couldn't see anyone, but the moon was covered with clouds. Just because he couldn't see them didn't mean someone wasn't there. The tents were all dark nearby, but he moved quietly down the row in the direction he'd thought he'd heard the yell.

Another crashing thud sounded ahead of him, and Ronon froze. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. It could be nothing. It didn't seem to be anything at all, but his gut was screaming that something was off, and Ronon had learned long ago to trust his instincts. He took another step and caught a flash of light beneath the pulled flap of a window one row over.

His heart was pounding now, and he suddenly felt more nervous than he did running through the woods chasing after Wraith. He checked his weapon, making sure it was fully loaded, then crept closer. His steps brought him one tent over from the occupied one, and in the darkness he almost didn't recognize what he was looking at.

Kell's tent.

He drew closer, careful to stay in the shadows. He hadn't seen anyone walking around the tent, but if they were up to something, they wouldn't leave the area unguarded. They weren't that dumb. He could hear muffled voices now, including one he was sure was burned into his memory forever. Taskmaster Kell—now Commander Kell.

"Tell me who sent you here, Sheppard, and maybe I'll let you off easy." Kell's voice suddenly sounded loud and clear through the tent, and Ronon's breath caught in his throat. Sheppard? The off-worlder?

A softer voice answered, "Go to hell."

Ronon heard the thud of flesh impacting flesh, followed by a pained grunt.

"Get him up," Kell demanded, and feet shuffled to obey.

"I'm asking you again, who knows about us? Who sent you? Was it Tremek?"

There was no answer, but Ronon cringed at the sound of more punches. Anger rushed through his blood. Kell was his commander, one he should obey without question, but he also knew Kell was a selfish bastard, using squadrons for his own personal gain. He didn't trust the man at all. He thought again of the Wraith planet and Sheppard coming back for him despite the risk of being caught by the enemy.

"Tremek is dead, Sheppard, or soon will be. You'll do yourself no good keeping silent for him."

"Heard about that," Ronon heard Sheppard's grunting reply. "An accident to kill a general, a suicide to kill another commander. What's your plan? President of Sateda?"

There was another smack and an audible snap, and Ronon felt his hands tighten into fists, the one still gripping his gun. A second later, he heard the louder sound of a body hitting the wood floorboards of the tent.

"Get him up," Kell hissed.

Had Kell tried to kill Tremek? It sounded like it, although Ronon hadn't heard anything about the general all day. And the suicide—Langus? It had to be. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Ronon knew they were talking about Langus. He knew Kell was involved in his death just as surely as he knew Langus incapable of killing himself. Langus abhorred all killing and suffering—his own more than anyone's.

A shadow moved, and Ronon pushed back against the tent with a sudden intake of breath. There was someone out there. He waited, and the shadow moved again near the front of the tent. The voices inside the tent were whispering ferociously, but Ronon could no longer make out their words.

He had obviously stumbled onto something serious here, and he would have to act carefully. If they had already killed Tremek and Langus, they'd have no problem getting rid of a nosy specialist. Melena was also at risk—if they caught Ronon, they would connect her to him instantly. They might even decide to eliminate her, fearing she may have somehow learned something.

The first thing he had to do, though, was help Sheppard. He was indebted to the man, a life for a life. Sheppard also seemed to know as much as Ronon, and that knowledge was sure to get him killed.

"I said, pick him up off the floor. He's getting blood all over the place," Kell snapped out, and Ronon stiffened. "You should have been more cooperative, Sheppard. I might have been able to help you."

There was no reply to that, but a few seconds later, Ronon heard people moving toward the door of the tent. Kell's voice whispered low but clear, and so close to Ronon that he jumped in surprise.

"Take him down to the river and shoot him, then dump his body in the water. I want no evidence of this."

"Yes, sir," another voice answered, then one more set of steps crossed the floor. The flap of the tent opened, spilling light out onto the grassy row. Ronon stayed hidden in shadows at the back of the tent.

The group filed out—three men, with a fourth being dragged along the grass between two of them. Kell was walking around inside again, ordering someone to clean the blood off his floor.

Ronon moved along the backs of the tents, tracking the movements of the group with Sheppard through the gaps between each tent. They walked steadily, and Sheppard made no effort to stand or walk on his own. Ronon slipped quietly along, his mind racing. At least three against one, all military, possibly friends or colleagues. One man with unknown injuries.

The wind gusted stronger and the clouds opened up, pelting the tents with rain. The constant patter against canvas washed out all other sounds, and Ronon thanked the heavens above. The weather at least was working in his favor. The rows ended, and under the rain, he could almost hear the rush of the river.

The small group dragging Sheppard appeared in the middle of the field, and if they hadn't had flashlights, Ronon would not have been able to see them. He looked around, making sure no one else was nearby, then began a slow crouch across the dark field. There was no cover here, but the darkness was deep and the storm was loud.

The group finally stopped and Ronon could just barely make out a line of black behind them. The river. It had carved its way through the field centuries before and now lay at the bottom of a sloping gorge. The water moved swiftly in these parts, and Ronon knew he had to reach Sheppard before he went into the water or he'd never see him again.

The two men dragging Sheppard dropped him to the ground and stepped back, their flashlights bright enough to reveal his outline. Sheppard stayed on the ground, but Ronon thought he could see the man's arms moving.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the entire field, and Ronon froze. For a split second, nature had revealed the entire scene. Ronon was still a good fifty yards from them, but he waited for the shouts of discovery, or the flash-bang of a weapon discharge.

Nothing happened. The three standing around Sheppard had been too focused on their task to see him. Ronon moved forward faster, knowing he was running out of time. He reached the river and peered down the steep slope to the sloshing water fifteen feet below, a rope of deep black amidst opaque shadows. The half-formed plan in his mind had him approaching the three men from the side, but beyond shooting as fast as possible, he wasn't really sure what to do.

A rumble of thunder erupted above him and he cocked his weapon. Run and shoot—that was as good a plan as any. In the back of his mind he thought the storm might mask the shootout, give him a chance to grab Sheppard and head back into town before Kell realized his people hadn't come back yet and went out looking for them. He crawled forward another few feet.

The three men were talking, although Ronon could not hear what they were saying. He caught the occasional growl of human voices in between the wind and the rain and the roar of the river. Two of the men turned back to Sheppard and pulled him to his knees, and Ronon's heart quickened.

_They were going to shoot him in the back of the head. An execution. _He bit his lip, forcing himself to move steadily, and not reveal his location because of a foolish step or too much haste.

The men spoke again, but instead of shooting him, the two at Sheppard's sides hefted him to his feet and swung him around, and the third man raised his weapon. Sheppard swayed, and the men moved closer to tighten their grips, but it was clear the off-worlder was standing on his own two feet under his own power. Ronon had no idea if he would be able to help him in a fight, but he couldn't count on it. If Sheppard could fight, that would have to be an added bonus.

The man with the gun was yelling at Sheppard now, and through the rain, Ronon heard the mercenary laugh. The gun steadied in his hand.

_Now or never, _Ronon thought, and he launched himself across the last twenty yards.

A bolt of lightning lit up the field again, and Ronon fired at the man with the gun. The other man's gun fired at almost the exact same moment and Ronon saw Sheppard's body jerk in response then fall backward.

Ronon screamed, a war cry of anger and hatred and betrayal. Kell had done this, on their very own base, using men who longed for violence but could never be warriors themselves. The man with the gun dropped silently to the ground, and the other two spun around in shock. They released their grip on Sheppard and scrambled for their weapons.

Ronon could hear more than see Sheppard's body tumbling down the steep slope toward the river, and then the storm unleashed another snarl of thunder that shook the ground and Ronon fired again. He heard one man cry out and hit the ground, but the other was shouting and running back toward the tents, and Ronon lost him in the darkness.

There was a splash only slightly louder than the river, and Ronon remembered Sheppard. He jumped down the incline, ridding the scree of rocks on his heels. The storm was letting up, that last shriek of thunder seeming to use up most of its energy. Ronon hit the water and bit his lip against a cry of surprise. The water was colder than he had expected, and as the current pulled at his body, he scanned the water for any sign of Sheppard. He saw nothing. Above him, he heard more shouts, including Kell's.

"No choice now, buddy," Ronon muttered to himself, and he let the water sweep him down river. He spread his hands and legs out, both to keep himself afloat and to cover as much of the river as he could. The water twisted and turned him around, and he gasped at the icy chill. He wouldn't be able to stay in here for long.

Another flash of lightning lit up the water, and Ronon caught a glimpse of a pale but battered face just a few feet ahead of him. He swam toward it, using the current to his advantage, and then the river was plunged once again into darkness.

Ronon was not quite sure how he managed to find and grab Sheppard, but a few seconds later, he felt rough fabric at his fingertips, and he lunged toward it. The off-worlder had drifted away from him in the few seconds after the lighting bolt, but Ronon wrapped numb fingers around the man's arm and pulled him closer.

He had no idea if he was dead or alive, but even if he was dead, his people deserved to have a body to bury and to know how it had happened. Ronon wrapped one arm around the stranger's chest and used the other to hold his head up out of the water. They were moving too swiftly for Ronon to get a good look at him, to feel for a pulse or check for breathing.

His shoulder slammed into a rock and he let out a howl of pain. His grip loosened reflexively, and he felt Sheppard slip down into the water. Ronon scramble, pulling at the clothes in a panic and lifting the man's head out of the water. Sheppard's arms and legs were limp against the current, and his head lolled on Ronon's chest.

They had to get out of the water. Ronon risked a glance behind him, wondering how long they'd been in the river and how far they'd traveled. Kell would be searching for them, and he wouldn't hesitate to call in entire squadrons to rake the woods around the river.

_A few more seconds, _he thought. _Stay in the river for a few more seconds._ His teeth chattered at the cold. He brought his feet up as another rock loomed large in front of them and managed to push himself and Sheppard around the rock with minimal damage. The river would only get faster from here. It weaved its way through the woods west of the capital city and the military base, mostly through thick forests. After another hundred miles or so, it would spill out into the ocean.

Ronon began swimming toward the side, out of the center where the current was strongest. It felt like hours, but eventually the water around him didn't push against his efforts as much. He felt soft sandy ground beneath his feet, and a moment later, he dropped Sheppard's body on the wooded river bank and collapsed.

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

Elizabeth reached for the glass of water at the table and took a small sip. She and the Satedan President had been hashing away at the details of their alliance for hours now. They were both adamant on finishing it this evening, but that was proving to be a more difficult task than expected.

Not that they didn't get along. Both sides were more than willing to compromise and reach an understanding, but the details of such a large alliance were time-consuming. Teyla had been extremely helpful in that regard, but it looked like they had many hours ahead of them still. Elizabeth wondered if they'd ever get to the final celebration feast tomorrow.

She glanced around the table covered in papers—information and notes and ideas and plans. When this was all finalized, Sateda would be Atlantis' greatest ally in the Pegasus Galaxy, one the expedition sorely needed. Most of the chairs were empty now. The others had made their contributions, participating for most of the day in the talks, but Elizabeth had finally let them go earlier that evening. Major Lorne had filled in for John on some of the military aspects, but there was still more work to be done on that part of the agreement, and Elizabeth wanted John's direct input. Rodney had been surprisingly adept at negotiating the scientific contributions and exchanges. Carson had shown up in the middle of the afternoon looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, which he probably had given his rough night.

They'd all been willing to stay with her, especially Teyla, but Elizabeth could see the fatigue in their eyes. By late evening, it was just her and the President sitting across the table from each other and looking for anything they might have missed.

"In regards to your military resources, I understand you wish for Colonel Sheppard to have some input in this matter, but it is something that my people will want to know soon. We have not put a definitive date on when we will stand against the Wraith, but it will happen sooner rather than later, and whether your people aide us in this could affect our plans and our confidence."

Elizabeth swallowed the sigh threatening to slip out. Her patience was growing thin on this particular point, and yet it seemed to be the last thing holding Nurif back from finalizing the agreement. "I understand the position you are in, President Nurif, but I cannot in good faith commit the resources of my military without Colonel Sheppard. Any agreement I might make would be null without his consent."

Nurif did sigh, then leaned back in his chair and stared at the papers in front of them. "I wish we did not have to put so much importance on the military aspects of this alliance," he finally said. "The scientific and medical knowledge you have agreed to share is more valuable than—"

"President Nurif," a voice interrupted from the doorway, cutting the man off mid-sentence, and Elizabeth recognized the President's personal assistant, who had been around off and on throughout the negotiation process.

Nurif frowned and lumbered to his feet, turning toward the nervous-looking man in the doorway. "What is it?" he snapped.

Elizabeth relaxed back in her chair but watched Nurif closely. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she was very good at reading body language. Whatever the assistant had to report, it was not good news. Nurif had straightened to his full height, his back and arms stiff with tension.

Her mind drifted to John and she felt a quiver of fear that the news was about him. Had he been more injured than they'd thought? Was he sick? She'd only seen him briefly the night before in the hospital. A sheet had covered his back, but spots of blood had started to soak through, turning her stomach. John had been pale and lying on his front. Carson had just given him a painkiller, and his eyes had looked dull and weary. He hadn't said anything, but he'd squeezed her hand in response to her own grip, and then Carson had chased her out so he could begin the long process of digging out the Wraith shrapnel.

She shuddered, forcing the thought from her mind. John was fine—Carson had assured them of that this morning. If it was about John, she didn't think Nurif's personal assistant would be relaying the news. Lorne or Teyla or Carson, or even Rodney, would have come in person.

The assistant left, and Nurif turned back toward the table, his mouth set in a grimace. He suddenly looked much older than he had a few minutes earlier.

"Is everything alright?" Elizabeth asked.

Nurif didn't answer right away. He sat down heavily in his chair and closed his eyes. Elizabeth was about to ask again when he suddenly straightened in his chair, and she could see him physically pulling himself together.

"I am sorry," he said, then cleared his throat. "I've just been informed that one of our top generals has been involved in a serious vehicle accident. He is not expected to live through the night."

"I am so sorry," Elizabeth answered, feeling a little guilty at the relief that it wasn't one of her people.

"Tremek is a good officer and a good man, but he loved speed," Nurif mumbled. His eyes had grown distant as he spoke, and Elizabeth wondered if he realized he was talking out loud. She sat back, listening politely. There was only so much she could do or say to reassure him. Despite the congenial working relationship they had established, she was little more than a stranger to him, and she felt that more than ever at the moment.

"He was always rushing around that base on that little hopper of his. I knew it was just a matter of time before he rolled it or crashed into something."

Something Nurif had said caught in Elizabeth's mind. The name—Tremek.

"I'm sorry, did you say Tremek? As in Adjunct General Tremek?"

Nurif looked up at her and it seemed to take him a second to realize she was talking to him. "Yes, yes," he answered. "Kade Tremek. He was brought into the regional hospital not long ago. We've lost two leaders in a week now…"

"Two?"

"First Commander Langus, to a suicide—so unfortunate. Now, General Tremek to an accident."

"I thought he was still alive," Elizabeth asked, trying to catch up.

"He is, for now. The reports are not good. The doctors believe he is beyond their help."

Elizabeth nodded soberly, biting her lip. She wasn't sure if Carson was going to appreciate this, but…

"President Nurif, I don't know if we would be much more help, but I would like to offer the services of my head physician, Carson Beckett. If you'd like, he could look over General Tremek's case. I can't make any promises, but he might be able to help."

Nurif's eyes lit up in dim hope, and a small hint of his usual excitement returned. He was already nodding his head. "Yes, an excellent idea. I'll inform the hospital he'll come over. Perhaps we could finish this in the morning before the celebratory feast and public announcement?" He waved his hand at the papers on the table.

Elizabeth nodded. "Absolutely," she said.

"Good, good." Nurif stood up, and Elizabeth followed him out the door into the wide hallway overlooking the city. The sky was dark, and torrents of rain slapped against the glass. A gust of wind whipped through the branches of a tree in the courtyard below them, and Elizabeth shivered in sympathy.

Nurif was signaling to his personal assistant, explaining the plan, but they'd hardly taken more than three steps when Carson and Teyla came running around the corner. Elizabeth felt her heart beginning to pound. The expressions on their faces practically shouted that they came bearing bad news.

"What is it?" she asked.

Carson swallowed, looking almost guilty, and it was Teyla who finally answered.

"It is John. We went to the hospital to pick him up, but he was not there," she said.

Elizabeth frowned. "Not there? Where did he go?"

"We don't know," Carson answered. "They released him over two hours ago, but no one has any clue where he went."

"He didn't say anything to anyone?" Elizabeth asked. That did not sound like John Sheppard.

"Apparently not," Carson answered.

"Lorne is out looking for him, and Rodney is at the rooms in case he shows up there, but so far there has been no sign of him." Teyla turned toward the President. "We were hoping the Satedan police might help us."

Nurif nodded. "Of course," he said. "I will contact the head of our police forces myself."

"Och, I should have stayed with him," Carson muttered. "He could have wandered off anywhere by now."

"Carson, I'm sure he'll turn up. He's not exactly known for his sense of direction," Elizabeth said. She grabbed the doctor's arm and shook it to get his attention. "In the meantime, I need you to return to the hospital. Something else has come up."

"What now?"

"General Tremek was seriously injured in an accident."

Carson nodded, and she could see him switching into doctor mode. He left quickly with the President's assistant, leaving Elizabeth and Teyla alone with Nurif. More people filled the hallways as news of Tremek's accident and John's disappearance began to spread.

"It is odd that John would leave without telling any of us," Teyla said quietly.

"Maybe he left a note with someone at the hospital," Elizabeth said.

"Perhaps," Teyla said, and Elizabeth could see her mind racing. "The nurses who cared for John did not know where he went, but we did not check the main desk. I would like to return to the hospital."

"I'll come with you," Elizabeth said. She turned to Nurif, but he had overhead them both.

"I'll have a vehicle—" he started, then stopped when a woman in a neat military uniform walked up to him. "Ah, there you are. You heard about General Tremek?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come with me to my office. We'll need to assign someone to temporarily take over his duties." He snapped his fingers at another assistant and pointed at Teyla and Elizabeth. "Get a vehicle to take them to the hospital."

"Yes, sir."

"Good luck, Doctor Weir. Thank you for looking in on Tremek, and I hope Colonel Sheppard turns up soon. Keep me informed—I will notify the city police chief immediately to start organizing a search party."

"Thank you, Mister President."

With that, Elizabeth and Teyla were led down the ornate staircase and Nurif walked off in the other direction, talking intently to the military officer at his side. Thunder crashed outside and Elizabeth gripped the banister a little tighter, hoping the bad weather wasn't an omen of things to come.

* * *

Kell paced furiously along the dark river bank, resisting the urge to curse at the top of his lungs. Flashlights bobbed along both sides of the bank a hundred yards in each direction, but the only sound was that of the river rushing along. The rain had finally let up, and Kell looked up at the sky, willing the clouds to clear so the moon could give them a little bit of light.

Tremek had come to him in the morning with suspicions regarding Langus's suicide, and it was clear he did not believe the man had killed himself. Kell had played along, agreeing to look into it, but the general had asked too many questions, and Kell knew he would eventually turn up dangerous answers.

The plan had been simple. Tremek was known for traveling around the base and even the capital in that hopper at too fast of speeds, and an accident would not be suspicious. Most people would be surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Arranging the accident had been a little tricky, but his man had guaranteed he could pull it off.

The situation was getting out of hand. Tremek was in the hospital, still alive, and there were reports of people hearing gunfire around the same time as the accident, already casting doubts that Tremek's crash had been simply an accident. Then the off-worlder—Sheppard—had shown up, and if he didn't know about Kell's plot to begin with—which he highly doubted—then he had learned plenty listening in on their conversation. There had been no other choice but to kill him, and even that had gone badly.

Kell screamed and kicked at a large rock in rage. Soldiers scrambled to get out of the way as the rock tumbled down the hill and into the water. Of course the off-worlder hadn't been alone. They should have checked the area more carefully. He'd been so sure of his plan for all these months that he was starting to get careless. One of his own men was dead now, another seriously wounded. The third man had sworn Sheppard had been shot, and both he and his unknown partner had ended up in the river.

Had they lived? Who was Sheppard's back-up? Did he know as much as Sheppard had? Likely. But, who had sent them? Who else knew? Were they all connected to Tremek somehow? The number of unknown variables was increasing, and Kell knew things could fall apart very quickly for him.

There would be some kind of investigation into Tremek's accident and the reports of gunfire. The latest information from the hospital stated that he wasn't likely to survive the night, but if he did, and he kept asking about Langus…Kell couldn't take that chance. Eventually, Tremek or someone investigating the situation would connect his questioning of Langus's death to his accident. In fact, now that Kell thought about it, Tremek's confidence that Langus had not killed himself seemed to imply he had hard evidence of the fact.

He began making a mental list of loose ends to tie up. He had to search the general's office and home at the first opportunity and get rid of any evidence the general had found. He had to make sure his man at the hospital didn't screw up and that Tremek died before talking. He had to keep tabs on the investigation and find out who had reported hearing gunshots.

His mind was racing, but it came to a screeching halt when it reached Sheppard. What did he do about that? His people would surely be looking for him, if not now then very soon. If they knew what he had come here for, they would already be suspicious. On the off chance that they didn't know anything, Kell would have to come up with a story that explained Sheppard's disappearance.

He gazed up and down the river. The clouds had finally cleared, giving the searchers a little bit of light, but the shadows were dark and crawling around Kell. He shook the sense of foreboding off. The water was moving fast and had probably carried Sheppard's body far down river. He would have to expand the search, come up with a reason for Sheppard's death.

Another accident? Too convenient, and too close to Tremek's accident. An attack maybe—someone upset over the alliance between Sateda and the off-worlders. An idea began to form in Kell's mind and he nodded. He walked along the top of the steep slope as the soldiers searched the water and the banks on either side. They had to find Sheppard and his friend. If the friend was still alive, they could kill him before he talked and plant evidence that he was involved in one of those extremist groups that protested contact with other planets.

Those groups never did anything more than hold meetings and pass around newsletters, but people didn't trust them, and it wouldn't be hard to believe one of the groups had taken their protest to the next level.

If the friend turned out to be an off-worlder as well…he shook his head, and his idea began to crumble. He could still plant the seed that someone had gone crazy and attacked them both, but he had no idea what he would say if the off-worlders knew what Sheppard and the other one had been doing. Too many unknowns, too many variables. Too many things that could still go wrong, and Kell was in this so deep now, there was no way he could get out of it. If caught, he knew it would be a death sentence.

He had to get his family out, just in case. He could get them through the ring to Belsa, then assess the situation with the off-worlders and Tremek…He had time to bail out, but that was a last resort and not the outcome he was still hoping for.

"Commander Kell?" a small voice broke through his thoughts and he spun around to see a young recruit staring at him wide-eyed.

"Have you found anything yet?"

"Uh, no, sir. We've searched both sides of the river bank and combed the forest within the boundaries of the base. No sign of any intruders."

Kell grit his teeth, barely holding himself in check. The effort was not lost on the recruit, who flinched visibly when Kell waved his hands. "Then expand the search. The river could have taken them miles away from here."

"Sir…"

"Are you questioning me, soldier?"

In the soft light of the moon and the flashlights bobbing all around them, Kell saw the young recruit blanch.

"No, sir. Tonight, sir?"

"Yes, tonight. I want those two men found even if you have to drink every last dreg from that river yourself. Go!"

The final word was said with a roar, and the recruit scrambled away from him to begin directing the other soldiers to search beyond the military base's boundary. Kell rubbed a shaking hand over his face, cursing himself for letting the stress get to him. He had to be more careful. He had to regain his composure.

"Sir," another voice called out, and he turned to see Tremek's administrative aide running across the field, a flashlight jerking up and down in one hand. In his other hand, he held a piece of paper, and he waved it over his head. Kell felt cold dread wrap around his heart.

"Sir, a message from President Nurif—he wants to see you immediately."

TBC…


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

Ronon lay face down in the sand, breathing heavily and shivering. He smelled dirt and grass and the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was lay there. Let whoever was coming find him, drag him away, kill him—as long as he ended up warm. He shifted and felt his shirt cling to his frigid skin, and he growled at the ground.

With an effort, he pushed himself up to his knees and looked around. He could hear the river behind him, but otherwise, the world was dark and quiet. A brisk wind picked up, turning his shivers into all out, full-body shudders.

Warm. He had to get warm. He stripped his shirt off, wringing out the water and then spreading it out on the ground in front of him. It wouldn't dry quickly, but it was the best he could do. He looked around again, straining his eyes to see something in the dark. A pale moon had broken through the clouds above him, but the trees were thick in this part of the woods, and little light broke through. Water dripped down into his eyes, and Ronon wiped his forehead with his arm. His gun was nowhere to be seen, washed away by the river.

He reached a hand out in front of him where he knew Sheppard was lying. He'd put if off for as long as he could, which realistically had only been a few minutes. He had to deal with the man for whom he'd jumped into a river and most likely ruined his career.

The body next to him was cold, and Ronon had to rely on his hands to tell him everything. The clothes were soaking wet, as expected, but he didn't feel any warm patches that would indicate heavy bleeding. His hands moved up the man's chest and found his neck. The skin was ice cold, and Ronon dug his fingers into the flesh with little hope.

To his surprise, he felt the faint flutter of a pulse against his fingertips. He readjusted his grip and pressed harder, waiting, not entirely convinced he'd felt what he thought he had. The beat came again, fast but not very strong. His hands moved up then toward his face and found lips, a nose, eyes. One side of the face and head was sticky and warm, covered in blood, and Ronon flashed again to the mercenary pointing his gun at Sheppard's head and pulling the trigger a split second after Ronon had pulled his.

He leaned over, almost pressing his ear into Sheppard's mouth, and felt the soft tickle of air. He was breathing. His hands moved around his head to where the blood was thickest, accidentally pressing into the gaping wound. He yanked his fingers away with a start, but Sheppard made no move, no sound. He was deeply unconscious, and Ronon knew enough about battlefield medicine to know the man was in serious condition. He was alive for now, but that could change very quickly.

He reached for his shirt, tearing the fabric into strips and wrapping them around Sheppard's head. The wound was still bleeding, and Ronon had no way of knowing how much blood had been lost. Once the wound was bound, he stripped the man of his shirt and coat, squeezing the icy river water out.

Warm. They had to get warm. He tucked the wet clothes into his waistband so as not to leave any evidence of their presence behind, then slipped his arms under the unconscious man. The easiest way to carry him would be to sling him over his shoulders, but the head wound was serious, and Ronon had no way of seeing what other injuries he might have suffered. There could be any number of broken bones that would be made worse by throwing him over his shoulder and running through the trees, so he pulled the man in close to his chest.

With Sheppard firmly in his grasp, he braced himself and used his legs to stand up, grunting as he went. Sheppard was a dead weight in his arms. He took a tentative step away from the river and into the trees and scowled at a twinge of pain in his ankle. He'd twisted it, he realized, but he had no idea when and it didn't seem to be too bad. He stepped carefully, feeling ahead with each foot before taking a step. The one advantage was that it was enough of an effort that Ronon's shivers finally died down and his muscles warmed up.

The off-worlder's skin was ice cold, and Ronon held on tighter, pressing the body up against his chest. It was the best he could do to warm Sheppard up for now, but at least he was transferring some heat to the man's vital organs. He plodded through the trees carefully, his only plan to get as far away from the river as possible.

Think. He had to think. His head was pounding, and he could feel exhaustion pulling at every muscle, but he forced one foot in front of the other, again and again and again. He stared down at Sheppard occasionally, but it was so dark he couldn't see more than a few inches in front of his face. Already he had run into two different trees. The minutes dragged on, and in the blackness of the night seemed to stretch into an endless haze. Tired. He was so tired.

Ronon shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Think—he had to think. Sheppard would not get better without help, but where could he go? Kell would cover every contingency looking for this man. Ronon took another step, and his foot sank into a small indent in the ground. His knee buckled and he stumbled forward.

"Aarrgh!" he growled. He'd landed on one knee, and a throb took up residence over his entire knee cap. Sheppard continued to breathe slowly, showing no sign of waking.

A distant shout echoed through the trees, and Ronon froze. The search party. He knew he'd been walking for awhile, maybe even as long as an hour, but they were approaching his location fast. He looked around and realized he could just make out the trees in front of him. The moon was bright overhead, the last of the clouds having been blown back toward the capital city.

He stood up, scowling at the pain in his knee that throbbed every time he bent it. Sheppard felt heavier than ever. He had to hide—find somewhere to hole up in until the search parties passed through. If it had been the middle of the day, the soldiers would find them easily, but at night under the cover of darkness…

It was his only chance. He pushed forward, searching the woods now for an unobtrusive spot to duck into. The forest was old and the trees and bushes thick. It made walking through it difficult with Sheppard in his arms, but the search parties would be having just as much trouble. He could hear them stomping through the woods behind him, making no attempt to move quietly.

Ronon was beginning to grow desperate when he spotted a fallen log lying diagonally across a small ditch. Bushes grew up around it and part of it lay against a smaller tree still in the ground. The area behind the bushes, between the fallen log and the ditch was pitch black, and Ronon's heart began to thump with adrenaline. He glanced back at the sound of searchers behind him, but could see no one.

He set Sheppard on the ground, then felt his way forward, through the bushes and under the log. There was a small space just wide enough for both him and the off-worlder, and the bushes and darkness might keep them out of sight. He scrambled back, scooped up Sheppard, then crawled into the space. He had flattened some of the bushes out in the process, and he tried to fluff them up at the last minute.

The sounds grew closer. Ronon could hear snapping twigs and branches as people pressed forward through the forest. There had been no shouts of discovery though, and Ronon could only hope he hadn't left much of a trail. He hugged Sheppard's body closer to him and sank as far back into the space under the log as he could manage. There was no way to tell if any part of him or the injured man was hanging out, visible to all. He took a deep breath letting it out slowly.

Sheppard's spiky hair brushed against his skin, and he took a moment to assess the man's condition. Sheppard was still unconscious, which was a good thing at the moment. His breathing was shallow but quiet, and while his skin was still cold against Ronon's chest, it wasn't icy like it had been.

Ronon reached a hand up slowly, insuring he didn't make a sound, and held it against Sheppard's neck. He could feel the soft exhale tickling the hairs on his arm, and Sheppard's heart beat fast but regularly in his chest. The bandages around his head had been soaked through, but they weren't dripping with blood, and Ronon hoped that meant the bleeding was slowing down. He pressed his hand against Sheppard's forehead and frowned at the cool, clammy skin.

"Anything?"

"Nothing. You?"

"Nothing."

The voices were soft but nearby, and Ronon heard the distinct sound of two men walking. Leaves crunched under their feet, and a few seconds later, he could hear harsh breathing.

"Do we even know what we're looking for?"

"Two men."

"Right, but who are they? What's the big deal? We couldn't wait till morning for this? My feet are wet and cold."

"Stop complaining, soldier."

"Oh, don't pull that soldier lingo on me. Just because we've only been in for a few months doesn't mean they have the right to step all over us."

"Actually it does."

One of the voices grew closer, and Ronon caught the flash of a light beam jitter across the trees.

"It's dark in these woods—nothing but shadows. We're not going to find them," the nearer voice griped. "Hold up a second, will you? I need to rest my feet."

The light from the flashlight grew brighter, and feet trudged through the brush, suddenly appearing on the other side of the bushes covering Ronon's hiding spot. He held his breath, wondering if the soldier could see them. Ronon couldn't see his face, but the flashlight he was using was bright. A second later, the legs walked out of sight.

"Where are you?"

"Over here, by the fallen log."

Another set of legs appeared, passing so close in front of Ronon he could have reached out and touched it. The bush in front of him was looking decidedly sparse and not like the cover he had first imagined it to be. Anyone would be able to look right through to see him and Sheppard cowering in the dirt.

"Ah, my feet are killing me. I've got blisters from trudging through all that wet ground."

"Hurry up, we're supposed to meet at the road up ahead in fifteen minutes."

Road? Ronon strained his ears, listening to the conversation. He tried to imagine a map of the military base and the river snaking away from it. How long had he been in the water? He'd managed to walk for almost an hour away from the river before the first sounds of searchers reached him. As near as he could figure, he'd been heading south.

He was well away from the capital city and the base. There were a few main roads criss-crossing the woods, each leading to other towns and cities. The trouble was going to be figuring out which road he was on.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah, I'm done. You know, I had big plans for tonight and tomorrow. So much for our big holiday break."

The footsteps faded as the two moved, and Ronon let out a sigh of relief. There was a road nearby—that was both good news and bad news. In fifteen minutes, the searchers would gather at the road, report their progress, then spread out and move on to the next area. Ronon knew the pattern well—it was a standard military search formation.

He leaned his head back against the wall of dirt behind him, and let his eyes close. He was so exhausted. He needed to move on, but he decided to wait for a few minutes and give the searchers a chance to gather then spread out again. There was also a chance that another group would sweep the area behind the two who had just passed, depending on their manpower.

He pressed his hand against Sheppard's chest and felt the steady thump of his heart. Ronon swore he felt a little warmer too. He could afford to rest—he needed to rest. Survival was all about making the right decisions: knowing when to move and when to stop and recoup.

After what felt like thirty minutes and no sound of anyone else passing nearby, he slowly pushed his way out of the hole, dragging Sheppard with him. The moonlight gave him a little bit more visibility, but Sheppard still looked like little more than a dark shadow. Ronon set him down on the soft ground next to the log, then peered carefully through the trees. The woods around them were silent.

He pulled out Sheppard's shirt and coat, and was glad to see they were almost dry. They were large, too. Ronon shrugged into the coat. It was a little tight across the shoulders, but it was better than nothing. He knelt next to Sheppard and checked the bandage around his head, but there was not much he could do. He sighed and began manipulating the man's limp arms into the shirt. As he pulled it over Sheppard's head and down his chest, he suddenly recognized the brown fabric and style as being the clothes the hospital gave out to patients it had just released.

Melena—of course! Ronon rubbed his face with his hands. He really must be tired. Why hadn't he thought of her sooner? She would know what to do to help Sheppard. She was technically still a nurse, but she was in the final training sessions for her physician certification.

He had to get to the road and figure out where he was, then call her. She would come pick them up without question. He scooped Sheppard up in his arms with renewed energy and the beginning of a plan forming in his head.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Melena, it's me, Ronon," Ronon whispered, glancing around the dark shop on the edge of the small town.

"Of course it's you. Where are you? I thought we were going out tonight."

"No time. Melena, I need your help."

"What's wrong?" Her tone changed abruptly, and the worry in her voice carried clearly over the old phone.

Ronon glanced around again, hoping the store he'd broken into didn't have some kind of silent alarm.

"Something happened. I can't explain now. I need you to grab as much of your medical stuff as you can find and then come pick me up."

"Are you hurt? Ronon, what's going on?"

"Melena," he whispered, frustrating and exhaustion battering against him. "I'm on the old Braethen Road. Pick me up near the big welcome sign on the edge of Finbass Village."

"Finbass? What are you…okay, fine. It's going to take me a few hours to get out there. How badly are you hurt?"

Ronon sighed, feeling relief flow through him, but he grit his teeth. He couldn't relax yet. This wasn't even close to being over. "I'm not hurt. It's…someone else. He's hurt badly. Please, Melena, hurry."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

"Melena, don't tell anyone where you're going. And if you see any cars or soldiers near the sign, keep driving. Don't…they can't…"

"I understand, I think. But you will explain everything to me the first chance you get. I'll be there in a few hours."

She hung up before he could say anything else. She was smart, and Ronon knew she trusted him completely. He just hoped she wouldn't regret it. He ducked out of the back door of the small shop and scurried into the woods a few yards behind it. Finbass was a small town, and at this time of night, he wasn't likely to run into anyone awake, but he didn't want to take his chances.

The shop sat at the edge of the town, and the sign where Melena was going to meet him was another mile down the road. He had some time to get there, but he didn't want to take any chances. The search parties had combed through this area, but the farther they went without finding anything, the more likely they would be to turn back and look again.

He found Sheppard stretched out under the tree in the exact same position he'd left him. The man had been unconscious for hours now, and Ronon was getting worried. It was still too dark to do anything for him really, but he felt compelled to check him over again. His hands pressed against Sheppard's neck, and he leaned down checking his breathing and heart rate. The blood on the bandages around his head was starting to dry, so at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.

Ronon's hands pressed along each leg, and he cursed the darkness. He had no idea what he was trying to feel. He did the same along one arm, then the other and paused. The skin felt much warmer about midway down the second forearm, and Ronon pressed his hands against the flesh again, grimacing. He could feel a lump over the bone, and the flesh was swollen around it.

It could be broken or it could be badly bruised. He grabbed a straight stick and tore the bottom hem of the hospital coat off. He paused a second, wondering if he should try to set the bone in case it was broken, then shook his head. He was too tired and it was too dark to make sure he was doing it right. In Sheppard's current condition, he could just make things worse. He fastened the stick to the arm, hoping that would at least keep it immobile. Melena would have to take care of the rest.

The welcome sign was a large, obnoxious thing, with lights along the top. It looked sorely out of place along the wooded road, but it was also impossible to miss. Half the lights along the top had been broken out, but it was bright enough still to chase Ronon back a few feet into the woods. He checked Sheppard's breathing and heartbeat for the hundredth time, somewhat amazed the man was still alive, then settled him at the foot of a tree, out of sight from anyone on the road.

The clouds had moved in again, and cold air rustled the leaves around them. Ronon shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. As if on cue, a soft drizzle picked up, and he scrunched closer to the tree. The branches and leaves overhead gave him enough cover to remain relatively dry, but he squatted down, turning his attention inward for the long wait.

In another month, it would be winter, and the leaves still clinging to the trees would all have fallen. The rain would be snow, and the cold of the river would have killed them both within a matter of minutes. Ronon replayed the events of the night again and again, thinking of all the things that could have gone wrong and the luck that had brought them this far.

He poked his head out of the trees a few times at the sound of a vehicle, then dropped quickly to the ground, cursing his anxiety for Melena to arrive quickly. The first two times it had been military trucks—the type that carried whole squadrons in the back. The third time it was unknown vehicle, too dark to identify, and Ronon didn't stare at it long enough to figure it out.

He counted the minutes off in his head, estimating it would take Melena a little over two hours to reach them. At the two-hour mark, he was shivering badly enough that he crawled back to Sheppard and gathered the man up in his arms. Sheppard wasn't much warmer, but they managed to conserve some body heat between the two of them. At almost three hours he was starting to get anxious, wondering if something had happened to Melena.

Had they found her? Had they picked her up and brought her in for questioning? Did they even know that Ronon was the one who'd shot the men trying to kill Sheppard? That he'd heard everything Kell had said? He would figure it out soon enough. He thought of Melena again, finishing her last week at the hospital to join Kell's staff, and realized that was over. He'd ruined her one chance of getting off Sateda before the war against the Wraith started.

"This is your fault, Sheppard," he muttered, but then he heard Kell's voice in his head and knew he couldn't blame Sheppard. Sheppard was more innocent in all of this than any of them.

Langus, Tremek, Sheppard. When would Kell stop? He wouldn't, Ronon knew. Ronon had long held doubts about Sateda's plan to fight the Wraith, and he'd believed he was in the quiet minority in those thoughts, but apparently Kell was planning something. Ronon knew he had a number of operations off-world. Was he making contingency plans in case Sateda lost the war? Was he insuring he got off the planet before it was too late, and killing anyone who got in his way?

Ronon closed his eyes, his thoughts racing. His earlier headache had morphed into pounding agony. He couldn't remember a time when his head had hurt this much. First things first. Melena was coming, but then what? Where would they go?

The capital was out of the question. Kell was infantry commander over the capital region and he'd have every last hospital and clinic covered, looking for Sheppard. There was a good chance he'd have the bigger hospitals in some of the other cities watched as well. They could try a small clinic, but he didn't want to risk it.

He shifted in the dirt, and his bruised knee twinged again. The ache and the smell of the rain in the woods reminded him of hiking with his grandfather as a little boy. They would wander off deep into the forests surrounding his grandfather's country home, and then it would be up to Ronon to figure out which way they'd gone and how to get back. He always made it back by dinner, but rarely without scuffed knees and mud covering every inch of his clothing.

Ronon smiled in the dark. He hadn't thought of his grandfather in a long time, and he suddenly missed him so much, his chest ached. Of all his family members, his grandfather had been the only who'd really understood him.

He looked around the dark woods, a surge of adrenaline pumping through him. His grandfather's country home had been left to Ronon. He hadn't been there in years, but it was his. It would be empty, and it was secluded. They'd have to drive another two hours south and west, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the only option left.

A vehicle was approaching. Ronon could just see the headlights through the trees. It pulled to a stop and then a door opened. He stood up, recognizing Melena's silhouette as she walked around the sign and stepped tentatively toward the woods.

"Ronon?"

TBC…


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

Evan Lorne sank into the back of the police vehicle, ignoring the thrum of people around the car. His head was throbbing, and he let it fall forward into his hands. He could already feel the skin around his eye growing taut, and he knew he was going to end up with one hell of a shiner in the morning.

He forced himself to lean back, stretching out his lower back as he did so. He'd spent the last three hours walking all over the capital city, stopping in at restaurants, bars, medical clinics, parks—anywhere he could think of that Colonel Sheppard might have wandered into. He was working off the assumption that the colonel was not thinking straight from the painkillers he'd been on. It was the only explanation he could come up with that didn't terrify him completely.

The scary explanations involved life-threatening injuries, kidnappings, accidents—the type of situations you didn't just walk away from. He sighed, forcing those thoughts from his mind. They weren't going to help anyone at the moment, especially Sheppard. They'd searched the hospital again, just to make sure the Colonel hadn't been shuffled off to another room, but not a hint of his whereabouts had turned up. From there, he had gone to the main police headquarters, Teyla and McKay had split up to search other parts of the city, and Doctor Weir was back at the palace, hoping Sheppard would just show up on his own. Evan had had less and less hope of that happening as the night wore on, and he figured that if Sheppard was just going to turn up, he would have done so by now.

Nurif had done them a favor, though. Nothing mobilized a city's police force like a direct call from the President himself. Evan had been in the station trying to get help when a woman had marched out of a back office and demanded to know if he was the off-worlder. He quickly figured out she was the chief of police, and within minutes, calls had gone out to every officer on duty, off-duty officers had been pulled in, and the entire station had been thrumming with activity.

Evan had tagged along with two officers who were just heading out. The three of them had scoured some of the poorer areas, looking for any sign of Sheppard. No one had seen anything, but he wasn't sure they would tell him even if they had Sheppard sitting on their laps.

In a moment of frustration, he had said as much to the latest group of bar patrons. The ring leader had taken offense to that and the next thing Evan knew, he was flying backward out the bar door and landing solidly on the grimy sidewalk, his face already swelling from the man's thick-fisted punch. Luckily, the two police officers had been standing a few feet from where he'd landed, and the fight had ended abruptly.

It wouldn't have been much of a fight. Evan looked out the window to the large man who'd swung at him and realized the guy could have crushed him within seconds. He touched his cheek and winced at the aching pressure. The two police officers were still talking the man down, and the man was still red-faced and shouting in a drunken rage.

His radio chirped and he glanced down, wishing for the hundredth time that night that they'd left a radio with Sheppard at the hospital. How many problems would that simple act have avoided? A second later, Doctor Weir's voice rang through.

"_This is Elizabeth Weir. Any sign of Colonel Sheppard?"_

Lorne paused, waiting to see who would answer first. It was usually McKay, then Teyla, then him. They'd reported to each other every hour for the last three hours, never with any news.

"_McKay here. I have walked all over this damn city—no sign of him anywhere. He could have wandered off into the mountains by now."_

"_I have not seen any sign of him, either. Everyone I talk to denies any knowledge of him," _Teyla answered.

"_Do you think they're lying? Maybe one of them has seen him and isn't talking…"_

Lorne keyed his radio, cutting Doctor Weir off. "Lorne here. I haven't seen him either, and like Teyla, I'm not getting much from the people here. I don't think they're hiding anything, though. I think they're just not in the habit of giving any information to the police. It might be different in other parts of the city."

"_I have to agree with Major Lorne's assessment,"_ Teyla interjected. _"I do not believe anyone has any information _to_ give us."_

"And the later it gets, the less friendly they're getting."

"_Have you run into trouble, Major?"_

"Uh, nope. Just accidently ran into someone's fist."

"_What?_"

Evan winced at McKay's squawk, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. He knew McKay cared about their well-being, and he would stay up all night facing fist-swinging drunks if it meant finding Sheppard, but sometimes, his concern was painfully received.

"I'm fine," Evan answered.

"_I just spoke to the police chief, and they're going to continue with the search, but it's getting late. I want you three back here. We'll continue the search in the morning._"

Evan heard the chorus of complaints and joined in with determination. He could imagine Weir holding her hands up in the air in the empty room to stem the tide of voices in her radio.

"_Stop by the hospital on the way and check in with Doctor Beckett, but then come back here. That's final_."

"Yes, ma'am."

It took Evan another forty-five minutes to reach the hospital, due to a wide truck having crashed into a pole then sliding to block all four traffic lanes. The policemen driving knew the city as well as anyone, but even their back-road detour took awhile. Evan breathed heavily through his nose, the aching pulse behind his eye not appreciating the twists and turns of their route.

The roads suddenly reminded him of his native San Francisco and he felt a rare pang of homesickness. He closed his eyes, pushing thoughts of home to the back of his mind, and concentrated on his increasingly pissed off stomach. By the time the car pulled up outside of the hospital, he felt like he was seconds away from losing the battle, and he lurched out the door and staggered to the public trash bin set on the sidewalk in front of the main doors.

"Are you alright, sir?" one of the policemen asked as he came up behind him.

Lorne gagged, but managed to not actually throw up. The smell emanating from the trash can wasn't helping things, though. He could feel sweat pop out on his forehead and his stomach clenched. He pushed away from the bin and took a deep breath.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You need a doctor or anything?" The policeman looked at him warily, keeping his distance. The other one had stayed near the car and was scowling in disgust at the trashcan, no doubt reminded of his many encounters with late-night drunks.

Evan waved them off, letting them off the hook, and the two retreated back into their car. They at least had the courtesy to wait until Evan made it through the front door of the hospital before disappearing back into the city.

He walked through the main lobby, drawing more than one curious look from both visitors and medical personnel alike. He was dead tired and staring dumbly at the map of the hospital, trying to remember which floor Beckett was on when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

"Major Lorne?"

Evan spun around, then grabbed at the wall as the room lurched dangerously. He saw Teyla's eyes go wide as she took in his appearance, but she stepped forward quickly and grabbed his arm.

"What has happened?"

"Bar brawl. I lost."

She raised an eyebrow at his answer, but kept a firm grasp on his arm and led him up the stairs. He followed along silently. He had no clue where they were going. At the second floor, they turned into a wide hallway and she pushed him into a chair.

"I will get Carson."

"No, it's okay. I'm just tired."

She said nothing to that, and disappeared around a corner. Evan leaned back to let his head rest against the wall. It had to be nearing one o'clock in the morning. He was overcome with the urge to lie down, but the effort of moving demanded more energy than he had at that exact moment.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Evan opened his eyes slowly, and it took a minute for McKay to come into focus. He stood in front of him with his hands on his hips and a disgruntled scowl on his face, exactly the way his grandmother used to look at him when he'd come back from the yard or the park covered in dirt and grass stains. He smiled at the memory and saw McKay's scowl deepen in response.

"Hey, McKay," he answered.

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Because you look a little tipsy. Also, you look like you came out on the wrong end of a bar fight. What was it you told Elizabeth? Something about running into a fight?"

Evan nodded, punching the air haphazardly with his fist before closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the chair. He really needed to lie down. The lights in the hallway were too bright, stabbing through his head.

"Carson, hurry up!" McKay yelled, and Evan groaned in response. The patter of footsteps quickened, and he sensed more than saw someone kneeling in front of him.

"Major? What happened?"

He opened his eyes again—still blurry, still too bright.

"Hey, doc," he answered.

"Heard you ran into a fist. Are you sure it was just one?"

"Just one what?"

"Just one fist. That's a right nasty bruise on your face."

Evan stared back at him and his mind struggled to keep up with the conversation. He let the doctor examine him, and even managed to keep his whimper of pain to a minimum when Beckett peeled his eyelid back and flashed his penlight across the pupils.

"Any dizziness or nausea?"

"Um…not really dizzy," he answered, ignoring the look Teyla was shooting at him. "Almost threw up outside, but I think that was from the roller coaster car ride over here. Otherwise, I'm just tired."

"How's your stomach now?"

"Okay."

"Headache?"

"Sure…head aches a little."

Beckett patted his arm. "Well, I don't think you've got a concussion, but that bruise will probably be a wee bit painful for the next few days."

"Doc, seriously. I'm fine. I just need some sleep. It's been a long day and night for all of us."

He felt hands pulling him to his feet, and he opened his eyes, mustering his strength. Beckett had a firm hold of his elbow and was leading him down the hall without a word. Lorne was about to protest when he felt something cold pressed into his hands. He jerked in surprise and looked at Beckett.

"This will help with the swelling. Keep it on that bruise at least until you get back to the rooms. Rodney, Teyla—"

Evan pressed the cold pack to his face, wincing. Beckett talked to Rodney and Teyla quietly, no doubt giving them firm instructions to send him straight to bed. Whatever. At this point, he wasn't going to put up much of a fight. All he wanted to do was lay down. He glanced around the hospital hallway, but it was silent save for their small group.

A few minutes later, he, Teyla, and Rodney had said goodnight to Beckett and were making their way back to the streets of Sateda. One of the public transport vans swung by to pick them up, and Lorne forced himself to stay awake and alert all the way back to the palace. They were still on an alien world, after all, and until Sheppard turned up again, Lorne was in charge of all of their security.

* * *

President Sal Nurif had always relished late nights. There was a quality of silence about them—as if he were the only man alive and moving through his world. As a child, when others had been afraid of the dark, he'd looked forward to it. He'd spent hours draping blankets over his window to create absolute black, believing that in the darkness, he could be anyone anywhere.

His parents had been a bit perturbed, but Sal was smart and ambitious, and he'd risen quickly to the top of his political career. He was, to date, the youngest elected President of Sateda the people had ever had, and he'd been re-elected three times already. The people loved Sal Nurif.

That night, the winter thunderstorms rumbled across the city. The wind blew so hard, he could hear the window panes shaking in their frames. He might have loved the darkness of night, but he didn't like storms. They felt too much like the threat of some higher being directed at Sal personally.

The negotiations with the people of Canada had gone smoothly enough until today. They were friendly and willing to share their scientific and medical knowledge. Sal had his suspicions that the name of their home planet wasn't actually Canada by the way all but the scientist struggled to say the word around an impulsive grin. So be it, though. Regardless of the true name of their world—and Sal had his own theories on that—they were going to be very good allies. If only they could agree on the military aspects of the alliance…

Sal sighed and tried to relax. He lay stretched out on the silk sheets of his bed—nothing but the finest for the President—propped up on a mound of pillows and staring out the large bay window at his feet. He had an unimpeded view of the city, its glittering lights dancing beneath the latest burst of rain. For some reason, storms seemed to catch on something high up in the sky and hover over the city, sometimes for days. The countryside could be enjoying beautiful sunny skies, but the city was almost always under the threat of gray, overcast skies—at least in the winter.

It had been a long day, and it hadn't ended well. He knew the following day was going to be just as busy, but his mind raced with the events that had taken place. Most of it had been spent in endless negotiations, only to be interrupted with news of Kade Tremek's accident. Sal shook his head. Tremek's accident wasn't exactly unexpected. He was a little surprised it hadn't happened sooner given how recklessly the man usually drove, but this was the worst possible moment for it to finally happen. First Langus to suicide, which had shocked Sal at first but now that he thought about it, Langus had always seemed a bit weak. Then Tremek, one of the military's most gifted generals. And to top the night off, the off-worlder—Sheppard—had wandered off and gotten himself lost.

Sheppard was a military man to the core. Sal had seen that the first day he'd met the man. Both Tremek's and Specialist Sincha's glowing reviews of him only confirmed it. And like all the military men Sal knew, he probably enjoyed his time with his ale. Even Langus had enjoyed his drink-time, and he hadn't exactly been the epitome of the military man.

There was no doubt in Sal's mind that Sheppard would turn up, probably drunk out of his mind with half the city in preparation for the following day's activities. He sighed again, biting his lip. Should he continue with the plans? The alliance hadn't exactly been finalized, and it wouldn't be until Sheppard decided to show up and say his bit, but close enough, right? How would the off-worlders feel about the speeches and the dignitary feast if their man was still missing?

But he wouldn't be missing. He'd stumble home at some point, maybe even tonight. Sal rubbed his face with his hands, trying to let some of the exhaustion he felt in his body seep into his mind. The rain outside had dried up again, and he even thought he caught a glimpse of stars. A bright sunny day would be taken as a good omen for the alliance and the War Against the Wraith by all of Sateda.

Commander Kell would be there as well. He had to keep reminding himself of that. The man had seemed agitated by something that had happened on base—Tremek's accident, he presumed—but he had been genuinely shocked when Sal and Military Chieftain Hettan Madal had temporarily promoted him to Adjunct General of the Capital Region until Tremek either recovered, or Heaven Above—passed on.

Kell's first order of business was to maintain military readiness, the War Against the Wraith hanging ever so closely over them. Second, he was to investigate Tremek's accident just to be safe, although Sal couldn't imagine anyone holding a grudge against the easygoing general. The man was congenial to a fault. Third, he was to assure the public in the festivities of the following day that all was well with Sateda. That was, and had always been, Sal's main priority as President.

He could feel his thoughts slowing down, giving in to his body's demands for sleep. It had to be well past midnight now. He pulled the blankets up over his ever-growing paunch and rolled onto his side.

There was a sharp thud, then the distinct sound of shattering glass. It reverberated through the dark room. Sal bolted upright in bed and looked around, but the room was quiet. He was alone. He peered at the window, but it seemed intact.

He was sure he'd heard glass breaking. He reached over toward the small lamp next to his bed when he heard a loud pop, followed by a blinding flash of light. His heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline pushing him out of bed and running toward the bedroom door. His palace was well protected and his popularity rankings high, but there was always some disgruntled group out there. The threat of assassination or attack was always a possibility, although admittedly he'd never given it much thought.

He reached the door and fumbled with the handle. He could smell smoke behind him, and he turned around to see the curtains around his large window burst into flame. A small squeak escaped from his throat, and he yanked harder on the door. A second later, he managed to fall out into the hallway and call for help, and a few seconds later, the hall and bedroom were swarming with guards.

Sal stood amidst the chaos of guards running backward and forward. He seemed unable to do anything but stare at them. Eventually, Commander Kell arrived and some time after that marched toward him. The man seemed almost oblivious to the pandemonium around him. Kell was cool under pressure, and Sal was sure it came from his years in the military. He resolved right then and there to start imitating Kell's demeanor. In an emergency situation, no one trusted anyone more than the man who was calm and in control, acting like he'd expected everything to fall apart. To him, it was no different from anything else he faced on a daily basis.

"It was a small canister, flame-proof," Kell said as he came up to him. Sal straightened up so he could look the commander in the eye. "It wasn't meant to do much damage beyond a broken window and a singed curtain."

"What was the point then? To frighten me?" Sal responded, forcing a certain amount of haughtiness into his voice. No one intimidated Sal Nurif.

Kell's face was expressionless, his voice even more so. "Possibly. There was a note in the canister."

He handed a small piece of folded paper to Sal, which Sal took and opened with confidence. A few lines in, his hands were beginning to shake, but he held his arms as rigidly as he could. He could feel Kell watching him. He finally looked up at the military man.

"A death threat?" His voice shook, and he swallowed in a desperate attempt to get some moisture into his throat.

Kell nodded. "One we need to take seriously. If they were able to get this canister through your bedroom window…"

"Yes, how did they do that? Where were the guards?"

"We're investigating that now, sir."

Sal nodded. His heart was pumping another surge of adrenaline as the reality of his situation hit home. A death threat—thrown right through his bedroom window, setting his gold embroidered drapes on fire.

"The fire was extinguished almost immediately, so there is very little damage," Kell continued, and Sal looked up at him in surprise. He had just been thinking of the fire.

"Excellent," he said roughly, and he remembered he was going to try imitating Kell's cool demeanor.

"Sir, if I may be so bold," Kell started, waiting for Sal to nod his go-ahead before continuing. "I would like to personally oversee your safety and make it my new highest priority."

Sal's legs almost folded underneath him at the relief that flowed over him, but he forced himself to remain calm. He locked his knees and hoped he wasn't visibly shaking. "Thank you, General Kell. That would be most appreciated."

Sal thought he caught a glimpse of a smile on Kell's face, but then the man moved off to continue with his investigation, barking out orders to get the President's room cleaned up and the palace secured from any possible intruders. It was only after everyone had filtered away to accomplish their individual tasks that Sal look down and realize he was wearing nothing but his underwear.

* * *

Carson pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the headache to recede. This would be the second night in a row that he'd stayed up, and he was more grateful than ever for the nap he'd taken earlier. He flipped through the chart hanging off the end of General Tremek's bed. The man was in serious condition, but relatively stable for the moment.

He stared down at the still figure lying in the bed before him. The man was older, late fifties to early sixties, but he was fit and had obviously led a very active life. That might make all the difference between life and death. Just about every life-saving contraption the Satedans had was attached to the man, more intrusive than the equipment he was used to on Atlantis.

He shook his head in frustration. If they could bring the man back to Atlantis, he stood a much greater chance of surviving. He was stable at the moment, but he could still go either way. Carson had learned long ago not to offer any guarantees when it came to medicine. He checked the man's vitals one last time, ensuring everything was still as well as could be expected, then slipped out of the room into the hall.

It was either very late or very early, depending on when you had last gotten some sleep. Carson padded down the empty hallway to the next room wondering if he dared take a nap. At this point, he was likely to fall deep asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, debating whether he trusted his exhausted body to wake up if there was an emergency with Tremek.

His thoughts turned to the night before and his vigil over Colonel Sheppard. John had been in quite a bit of pain at first, but true to form had hardly complained. The most Carson had gotten out of him was a few pained grunts, and then he'd willingly sunk into oblivion under the pain killers. Carson's thoughts jumped from the sight of John's bloodied back to Lorne's face. The bruise would turn all kinds of bright colors by morning, and Carson knew from long experience that it would look worse than it actually felt for many days to come.

He wondered if maybe he should have kept the Major at the hospital or if that would have been overkill. Lorne was certainly in no danger from that punch, but John's disappearance weighed heavily on his mind. Lorne had looked dead on his feet, but it was too late now. He couldn't very well wake the man up and have him come back to the hospital. Hopefully, all of them were in bed asleep. He'd so ordered once they radioed to tell him they'd all arrived safely, although he wasn't sure how much weight that had carried over the radio. Most likely they were all still awake, just as he was.

He slipped out of the room, intent on letting one of the nurses know he planned to take a nap so that she could wake him if needed. He was just closing the door to his small room when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

He looked up, expecting to see a nurse or doctor, but the hallway was empty. He stared around in confusion. He was sure he'd seen someone. He walked a couple of steps, listening intently, but there was hardly a sound. Not even the Atlantis infirmary was this quiet, unless it was completely empty.

To his right, he saw the door to General Tremek's room was closed tightly. He was sure he'd left it open a few inches. If there was an emergency, he wanted to be able to get in there as fast as possible. He glanced down the hallway again, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the night duty nurse walking toward him. He waved her over, then stepped cautiously through the door.

The room was dark—darker than he'd left it—and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. He caught another flash of movement, a shadow outlined against the block of machines monitoring Tremek.

"What's going on in here? Who are you?" he burst out.

The shadow jolted, moving faster than Carson could have expected. He heard the blare of an alarm from one of the monitors when Tremek's stable condition suddenly plummeted, and then the silhouette leapt. He felt the side of his head explode in a starburst of pain as the shadow swung toward him.

Carson fell, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

TBC…


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

"Melena," Ronon whispered, standing up carefully and stepping out from behind the trees. "Over here."

He saw Melena jolt at the sound of his voice, the surprise on her face illuminated by the light of the welcome sign. As Ronon stepped out into view, she suddenly launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his body. Ronon paused in shock for a moment, before returning the embrace and soaking up the warmth of her body.

"You're freezing! Ronon, what is going on? Are you alright?"

"I told you, I'm not hurt. I'll tell you more on the way, but right now we've got to get moving."

He pulled away from her and led her back toward the trees where he'd been hiding before she could say anything else. It was just light enough to see the outline of Sheppard's still body.

"Who is he? What happened?" Melena asked, dropping immediately to the man's side. Ronon watched her shadow reach out and press her fingers into his neck. "He's ice cold. Ronon, what is going on?"

Melena's voice hissed through clenched teeth and Ronon could almost feel the tension rolling through her. He shook his head then realized she probably couldn't see him.

"Help me get him into the vehicle, then I'll tell you everything. I promise."

It took much longer than Ronon felt was safe. They were totally exposed out here on the side of the road. He lifted Sheppard under the arms, hefting most of the man's weight. Melena grabbed his legs, and together they wrestled the cold, limp body into the back of the vehicle. The back seats ran perpendicular to the front seat, and Melena collapsed the long bench on the driver's side, giving them room to lay Sheppard out.

Ronon grimaced. The man looked a hundred times worse in the soft overhead light of the vehicle's rear cabin. His face was gray with smears of black rubbed under his eyes. One side of his face, near his left eye, had a purplish green patch and Ronon remembered the beating Kell had given the man in the tent. He was surprised there wasn't more swelling or discoloration, but the cold river might have helped in that regard.

Sheppard's mouth hung slightly open, his jaw slack. Ronon could just see the whites of his eyes under almost closed eyelids, and the bandage he had haphazardly wrapped around Sheppard's head in the dark was soaked through with blood.

He looked dead. If it weren't for the rapid rise and fall of the man's chest, Ronon could have easily convinced himself he'd spent half the night carting around a corpse. He shivered at the image and forced it out of his mind. Sheppard was still alive for now, and Ronon intended to keep him that way.

"What happened to this man, Ronon? He needs a hospital." Melena had crawled into the vehicle to examine Sheppard, and she turned back to stare wide-eyed at Ronon.

Ronon shook his head. "No hospitals—can't risk it. Ready to go?"

Without waiting for a response, he shut the door and ran around to the driver's side, sliding into the cushioned seat. His lower back was tight with anxiety, but he felt himself unwind a little as he sat down and gripped the steering wheel

_Not yet. We're not safe yet,_ he berated himself. He was starting to shiver badly, and he turned the heat up all the way before easing out onto the dark road. He glanced back at Melena and saw she'd pulled out her medical bag.

"Can you save him?"

"I don't even know if a fully staffed hospital can save him, but he'd certainly have a better chance there. Ronon, please—if we don't take this man to a hospital or a clinic, he will die."

"If we take him to a hospital, he'll die for sure. And so will we," he bit out, then forced himself to take a deep breath. He was exhausted.

"What's going on? Who is he?"

Ronon spoke softly, giving Melena as many details of the evening's events as he could. It was probably more than was necessary, but he felt he owed it to her. She had a right to know what he'd dragged her into. She was quiet throughout the entire accounting, but Ronon could see her moving almost frantically in the back as she tried to care for Sheppard.

"I'm sorry, Melena. I'm sorry I dragged you into this," Ronon said after they'd been driving in silence for a few minutes.

Melena didn't answer right away, and Ronon felt a pang of guilt wash over him. What had he done? What had he dragged her into? He'd ruined her best chance of getting off the planet, and now she was in the middle of Kell's plot, whatever it was.

"You know," she finally said, "Hali begged me to ask you to reconsider my assignment to Kell's team. I wasn't even going to bring it up with you, but I guess it's a moot point now."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop saying that, Ronon. Stop apologizing. I think…" She was picking her words carefully, and Ronon forced his eyes away from the rearview mirror and back to the road.

"I think you did the right thing. Even if we can't save this man's life, you did the right thing."

Ronon felt tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding uncoil and drift off his shoulders. She was giving him a way out—he'd ruined his career, her career, and possibly forfeited both their lives, but she was letting him off the hook. Whatever else happened to them, he could never let her get away. Life without her was unthinkable. He opened his mouth to say as much, then bit his lip. He never was very good with timing, but he couldn't say what was on his mind. Not now—not like this.

"What's his name?"

"What?" Ronon asked, jarring himself out of his thoughts.

"His name."

"Oh…uh…Sheppard. John Sheppard."

"The off-worlder? This is one of the off-worlders—Sateda's great new allies?"

Ronon snorted, then chuckled, then chuckled harder. The vehicle sailed along the dark road, and he laughed until he was slapping his leg. He glanced up at the mirror and saw Melena looking back at him with a mixture of anxiety and disapproval, and he broke up into uncontrollable laughter again, the euphoria of surviving spreading through his tired bones.

* * *

The vehicle pulled into the long, dark driveway of Ronon's grandfather's house, and Ronon killed the lights. He felt a sudden unease, and envisioned the quiet house erupting with noise and lights as Kell and his squadrons exploded out of their hiding places and surrounded them. The tension thrummed through his muscles, and he gripped the steering wheel until his fingers were white and beginning to tingle.

Melena had refused to talk to him for almost twenty minutes after his breakdown into hysterical laughter, but then she'd demanded to know where they were going. The release of tension had been expected, but as the adrenaline of the evening wore off, Ronon had struggled to stay awake. His body had begun to scream its injustices as well, and a headache had blossomed behind his eyes, making it difficult to concentrate on the road.

Melena had slipped him some water and painkillers, which had helped, but he needed to lie down. He wouldn't admit it, but he knew he couldn't do much more for the rest of the night and maybe even the following day. He was still cold, despite the hot air blasting through the vents.

The house appeared in front of him, just as he remembered it. The last time he'd been here was to close everything up. His grandfather had just passed and he'd been a few weeks from starting his military career. He slowed the vehicle down and stopped near the front door.

"_This_ is your grandfather's home? Ronon, it's beautiful."

It really was. It was a large, two story brick building set in a small clearing and surrounded by forest. Two large black chimneys rose from either end of the house, and a small, disconnected garage sat off to the side, almost behind the house. It was dark and empty, the silence settled so thickly around it that Ronon knew instinctively that no one had been here in years.

"Yeah," he answered, turning the engine off.

"Your mother's father or father's father?"

"Father's," Ronon answered. "My mother's father died when I was young of Second Childhood. They lived south, near the cliffs. My father was mad as hell when my grandfather bypassed him and left me the house instead." Years of memories flooded toward him, but he shook his head, stemming them off. He didn't have the energy to deal with them tonight. He could feel Melena's eyes boring into the back of his head—he rarely spoke of his father or his father's side of the family.

"How's Sheppard?" he asked, changing the topic.

"In bad shape, but he's still alive. We need to get him inside," Melena answered and Ronon saw her bending over her charge in the back seat.

It took him awhile to find the hidden house key, then some more time starting up the generator that provided electricity to the house. The night was clear and crisp this far south and seemed to have avoided the thunderstorms drowning the capital region. When he returned to the vehicle, Melena had packed up her supplies and sat waiting for him, and she looked suddenly small and scared next to the sick man in the dark of the back seat.

Ronon managed to carry Sheppard into the house and upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Melena ran ahead, pulling the covers off the furniture in the room. He set Sheppard on the bare bed and noticed the bandages around his head had been changed. The dressings were white and clean, but thick on the right side, reminding Ronon of the seriousness of his condition.

It took more time to track down the linens, which were clean but smelled of having been stuffed in a closet for years. Melena decided they were good enough for tonight. While she set her medical gear up in the room, Ronon moved the vehicle around to the back of the house. The garage was piled with firewood, and he grabbed an armful for the fireplaces.

When there was nothing left for him to do, nothing more he could think of to ensure they were safe, Ronon trudged back into Sheppard's room. Within minutes, he had a roaring fire going, and he thanked his grandfather's memory that the chimney was clear even after all these years. He settled into the stiff desk chair and watched Melena work. She was wrapping Sheppard's arm carefully, moving the limb only enough to secure the bandages.

Ronon wanted to ask her how Sheppard was, what the extent of his injuries were, what else needed to be done, but his energy flowed out of him completely and all at once. He couldn't even dredge up the effort needed to string words into coherent sentences. His arms and legs felt shaky and he was desperate to lie down, but he sat frozen in the chair. Even his mind was too tired to think.

"Ronon?"

Melena's soft voice drew him slowly out of his stupor. He glanced around in confusion for a minute, and his gaze drifted to Sheppard settled warmly in the bed, an array of tubes and bottles of liquid hanging haphazardly from the coat rack that he had sworn had been in the front hallway.

"Hey…"

Ronon's eyes shifted to Melena's worried face, and she smiled at him, resting a hand on his cheek.

"You're shivering. Are you cold?"

He nodded, realizing he was suddenly freezing.

"Okay, just sit still for a moment and let me look you over, then we'll get you into bed and under warm covers."

Ronon opened his mouth to protest, but Melena's hands were already fluttering through his hair, her fingers digging into his scalp looking for cuts and bruises, or something more serious. They moved down his neck and chest, then his arms, and he grunted at the dull stab of pain that reverberated from his shoulder down to his fingertips and wrapped around his ribs.

Melena pushed him forward and slipped the dirty brown hospital jacket off, tutting at the spectacular bruise covering his arm from elbow to the top of his shoulder. Her pushing and prodding revealed more bruises, a deep gash across one of his shoulder blades, and a sprained ankle, but luckily no broken bones. He was still shivering slightly, and before he knew it, Melena was dragging him to his feet and down the hall to the next bedroom.

The bed was made, and the covers over the furniture taken down. Ronon stared at it in confusion, wondering who had fixed the room up, and then Melena was pushing him back onto the bed and pulling thick, warm blankets over him.

"Sleep, Ronon. Everything's going to be okay," she whispered, brushing her lips against his forehead.

He saw an image of Kell in the tent barracks, waving a gun around, of Sheppard falling into the river, of the soldiers raking the woods. They weren't safe. He had to make sure they were safe. They had to get away.

"Not safe," he muttered. "Not safe."

"Ssshhh," Melena soothed. "We're safe Ronon. We're okay. You need to rest—everything will be okay."

His eyes pulled heavily, and despite his best efforts, he allowed Melena's melodic voice to lull him into a deep, desperate sleep.

* * *

Light streamed into the room, curling around the edges of the thick drapes over the window behind his head. Ronon opened his eyes to a bare white wall, a chair with clothes draped over it, and a dark wood door opening into a hallway. He was suddenly seven years old again, spending the summer with his grandparents. His bedroom had glowed with the anticipation of another day hiking, hunting, fishing, and exploring the wilds with his grandfather, but he had always curled up under the warm covers in the morning, his body so relaxed he could hardly move until the smell of his grandmother's cooking had prodded him out of bed and down the stairs.

He blinked back the memory. It had been years since he'd thought of his grandparents. Ronon lay unmoving in the bed, soaking in the warmth. It seemed like he hadn't been warm in a very long time, and he didn't want to break the spell it had over him by shifting or looking around.

He was in his grandfather's house. Light spilled into the room, bright and warm. He listened for any sounds, but heard nothing. He could almost believe he was alone, but then he remembered Sheppard, and the fight at the river, and the race to escape Kell's clutches.

And Melena. Melena was here somewhere, caring for the off-worlder. Was he even still alive? Ronon risked looking around the room and realized the sun was too bright for morning. It had to be at least midday, if not later. How long had he been asleep? He pushed himself up slowly and looked down to see he was in nothing but his underwear.

His clothes had been wet. He'd jumped into the river after Sheppard, then crawled through the woods. He'd torn his shirt up to use as a bandage, and his pants had never really dried. He turned to look at the chair he'd first noticed upon waking and saw his pants slung over the back, stiff and moisture-free.

He pulled them on slowly, feeling every last scrape and bruise of the night before. There was no shirt. He'd have to hunt through his grandfather's things to find one. Ronon had grown tall and strong, the spitting image of his grandfather, and with luck, the clothes in the house would fit him well enough.

He stepped out into the hallway and looked around, but it was utterly quiet. Where was Melena? She wouldn't leave him alone, would she? His heart suddenly raced at the thought of her leaving him, of refusing to be dragged into this mess.

"Melena?"

The house creaked distantly, but gave no other sound. Ronon padded down the hallway in bare feet until he reached Sheppard's room, limping slightly at the ache in his twisted ankle. The door was only partially open, and he pushed it open with a sudden sense of trepidation.

It looked much as it had the night before. The drapes were drawn and pulled tight across the edges of the window, leaving the room in near darkness. Ronon glanced around but Melena wasn't there. He could tell from the lump shape on the bed that Sheppard was in it and in almost the exact same position he had laid him down. The coat rack held bottles of fluids that snaked down tubes and disappeared under the bed covers.

Ronon crept over to one of the windows, pulling the drapes back about a foot to let light fill the room. He had the sudden urge to see Sheppard, to stare at the man who had…okay, he hadn't gotten him into this mess, but he was part of it. He'd been in it with Ronon since the very beginning.

The desk chair had been pulled around to the bedside, and Ronon wondered how long Melena had sat there keeping watch over her patient. He sat down heavily, his body stiff and tired despite the long sleep he'd had. He rubbed at his eyes, then leaned forward.

Sheppard was as pale as ever. The bandage around his head was thick, obscuring the brown hair underneath. Dark discolorations, the remnants of bruises, marred his left eye, chin, and the right side of his lip. He was utterly still, except for the slight rise and fall of the covers over his chest.

Ronon remembered the icy touch of the man's skin, and he reached forward, brushing his fingertips lightly over the man's cheek. When Sheppard didn't stir at all, he pressed his hand more firmly into the skin, gauging the temperature. The skin was warm, though whether it was too warm was beyond Ronon's medical abilities.

Sheppard was alive. He had saved the man so far. He certainly would have been dead if Ronon had let him wash away in the river. He could have just turned around and gone home, read about the discover of the off-worlder's bloated corpse a few days later.

He shook his head in revulsion, pressing a hand to his stomach as it suddenly flipped inside him. It was a disgusting thought, one he wished he'd never let enter his mind. Instead he forced himself to think of Karakor and the rescue mission he'd led. Sheppard had been vibrantly alive. His back had been covered in blood, but he'd been running hard toward the ring, and then Ronon had gone down, and Sheppard had turned back and come for him. Saved him.

Ronon reached for the man's shoulders, wanting to see his back. He should have told Melena about the shrapnel wounds, how they'd bled. How Sheppard had been in the hospital all day before going to the military base that evening. He looked again at the bandaged head and the stillness of the man and shook his head. He shouldn't move him—that might hurt him more.

Maybe it was because he was in his grandfather's house and his memories of childhood and exploration were closer to the surface than they'd been in a long time that Ronon reached again for Sheppard's face, his heart beating with adrenaline like a child who had been told to stay out of a room but snuck in anyway.

He wanted to _see_ the off-worlder. He peeled back first one eyelid, then the other, and stared at lifeless hazel eyes. From there he pulled back the covers and ran his fingers over Sheppard's bare chest, the bandages around his ribs, the heavy cast over the right arm. Melena had attached an IV to the left arm, and Ronon's fingers danced over the tubing and tape entering the vein in the crook at the elbow. He turned Sheppard's hand over and looked at the palm, then flipped it back to look at the knuckles.

The hand was rough and calloused—not the hand of a man used to sitting behind a desk. He was a warrior, a fighter. Ronon had heard him taking a beating, and he hadn't given into Kell. He hadn't answered Kell's questions.

Ronon jerked, mortified at what he was doing. He dropped Sheppard's hand back on the bed and pulled the covers over the man's chest and up to his neck. He glanced at the open bedroom doorway and sighed in relief that no one had caught him. It was ridiculous. Sheppard might be an off-worlder, but he was just a man, like any other Satedan man.

The injured man hadn't reacted to Ronon's touch whatsoever, not even when he'd peeled his eyes open, and Ronon began to fear for his condition again. He was alive, but for how long? How bad was the head wound? He'd been shot after all. Ronon had saved the man from certain death, but for what? So he could die a slow death in a strange house on a strange world? Maybe he was in a coma. Maybe he'd never wake up again and one night just stop breathing and slip away. Maybe it would be better that way.

Ronon heard light footsteps on the staircase, and he sat back in the chair, trying not to look at Sheppard. Melena poked her head in the room, double-took on Ronon's lanky form next to the bed, and broke into a wide, relieved smile. She walked into the room carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, and the scent filled the room.

"You're awake," she whispered. "When did you wake up?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"I was about to get you up. You've been dead asleep for hours now. Are you hungry?"

Ronon nodded, and Melena set the tray on the small desk in the corner of the room. Ronon moved his chair over and inhaled the smell of the food. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Melena perched on the edge of the desk as he ate, smiling at his appetite. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Ronon answered between bites. "Kind of sore, but nothing that won't go away in a day or two."

Melena nodded, but she continued to stare at him. Behind her smile there was a hint of worry. Ronon tore at the piece of bread.

"Where'd you get the food?"

"I got the food before I picked you up. I wasn't sure what to expect, but you sounded like you were in trouble. I guess I figured it wouldn't hurt to have some food around."

Ronon waved his hand toward Sheppard. "You brought a lot of medical stuff."

"Yeah," Melena sighed. "I had to stop to get my medical bag at the hospital anyway, so I decided to grab as much stuff as I could. You said he was badly injured."

Ronon drained the last of the soup, using it to wash down the last of the bread. He had inhaled the food. He hadn't realized he'd been so hungry. He sat back in the chair and rubbed his full stomach in satisfaction; the lingering fear in Melena's eyes finally winked out, replaced with genuine happiness.

"How is he?" Ronon asked with a quick glance at the bed.

Melena sighed, staring down at her hands for a moment before replying. "Not good. The bullet glanced off his skull, causing a deep gash and a severe concussion, but I couldn't find any evidence that it had penetrated the bone. With this kind of injury, though, there could be untold damage to his brain that I can't see."

"Is he going to make it?"

"I don't know, Ronon. He's deeply unconscious right now. He may wake up and be fine or he may simply fall so far into a coma that his body just quits. Besides a broken arm, four broken ribs, and a badly sprained knee, he's covered in cuts and bruises. The bruising on his stomach is bad enough that I'm afraid he might be bleeding internally, but he's breathing on his own for now. I can't make you any promises or give any projections on his recovery, though. We're just going to have to take things one day at a time."

"If we'd gone to a hospital last night, maybe tracked down his people—"

"Maybe that would have helped, maybe not. Don't second guess yourself, Ronon. I spent all night and all morning thinking about what you saw and heard. I have no doubt that Kell would have found us and John very quickly if we'd gone to a hospital, and all three of us would be dead right now."

She reached out and rubbed his arm. "Let's find you a shirt before you freeze to death. It took me half the night to get the two of you warmed up from your little midnight swim and traipse through the woods."

Ronon laughed and pushed himself up out of the chair. He wrapped his arms around Melena, and felt her lean into him. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispered. He buried his face into her hair and kissed the top of her head.

"For starters, you'd probably get sick from the cold. Come on." She pulled out of his embrace but just far enough to turn him toward the door. Ronon smiled and let her lead him out of the room and into the brightness of the rest of the home.

TBC…


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

Carson Beckett woke up slowly, prodded out of unconsciousness by a throbbing headache. He didn't dare open his eyes. He lay as still as possible, letting his head adjust to its new reality.

He remembered checking on General Tremek, then heading to an empty room to rest. All had been well and quiet—Tremek had been holding on steadily. The rest of the hospital had seemed calm as well, with no major emergencies. He remembered Tremek's door, closed when it should have been open, and the shadow in the dark room, leaning dangerously over the still patient.

Then things got a little fuzzy. Had he been hit? Had he fallen? Whatever had happened, his head was killing him. He shifted in the bed, then paused. He had no memory of actually getting into bed. He'd wanted to take a nap—it had been so late and he was so tired. Maybe he was hung over? That would explain his lack of memory.

Carson immediately shook the thought off. He had one super critical patient, one friend with a bruise blossoming all over the side of his face, and one friend missing. There was no way he'd get drunk at a time like this, not when he was sitting on the edge of more than one medical emergency.

"Carson?"

_Elizabeth?_ He peeled open his eyes, then slammed them closed as light assaulted him. It wasn't very bright, but it was enough to ratchet up his headache another notch. He felt his stomach flip with nausea, and he tried to swallow it back. He much preferred being on the doctor side of the doctor-patient continuum.

"I've got a glass of water here," Elizabeth whispered.

He turned his head toward her and cracked open his eyes. He could just see her dark figure moving next to him, holding a glass to his lips. He sat up a little to sip the water, and relaxed when he didn't immediately throw it up. He could tell already that he had a concussion.

"What happened?" he asked after Elizabeth had pulled the glass away.

"We were hoping you could tell us. The hospital security guard called us about an hour ago and said there'd been some kind of incident. Apparently, you've been unconscious for about two hours now, and they say you have a concussion."

"Mild concussion," he amended.

"Do you remember anything?"

Carson took a deep breath and opened his eyes a little wider. His head was still throbbing, but he was feeling a little more with it. "I thought I saw someone go into General Tremek's room. I followed him or her—whoever it was—and then… um… I think they must have hit me, knocked me out."

Elizabeth nodded. "The night duty nurse said she was coming toward the room when she heard a crash. A man bolted out of the room before she got a good look at him, and then she found you on the ground and Tremek going into cardiac arrest."

"Is he alright?" Carson half sat up in a panic, but Elizabeth immediately leaned over and pushed him back to the bed. He groaned at the flare of pain behind his eyes.

"He's holding on for now. The nurse was able to call for help."

Behind her, the door opened and two worried faces poked their head in. Rodney and Teyla smiled at the sight of Carson awake.

"Hello, Carson," Teyla said, leading the way in. "How are you feeling?"

"Head is throbbing a wee bit, but I think I'll survive," he answered. A weight he didn't know he'd been carrying suddenly lifted at the sight of his friends, safe and sound.

_All except John, _a little voice added glumly to his brightening mood.

"Any news?" Elizabeth asked them.

Rodney shook his head, eyeing the chair on the other side of the bed before lowering himself gingerly into the seat.

"Whoever attacked Tremek and Carson is long gone. The security systems here aren't exactly hi-tech, so identifying whoever it was is going to take something of a miracle. No one saw anything, either. The head of the hospital's security said he'd let me look at the tapes a little more closely, so maybe I'll be able to spot something they missed."

Rodney sounded positive he would spot something, and Carson hoped that turned out to be the case. "Have you heard anything about John?"

"No, nothing," Elizabeth answered.

Carson could see on all of their faces what they were thinking. Whatever had led to John's disappearance couldn't be good, not with him missing for more than twelve hours now without a single clue as to his whereabouts. Carson had a bad feeling, deep in his gut, that something was seriously wrong with his friend.

"Excuse me, sir," a man ducked into the room, searching the faces looking back at him. His gaze settled on Rodney's. "The tapes are ready if you'd like to go through them."

"Right," Rodney answered. He sounded put-out and tired. He gave a half wave in Carson's direction and then disappeared after the security guard.

"Where's Major Lorne?" Carson asked.

"He's at the gate, contacting home. The President gave us permission to bring in some additional search teams, so we're bringing in four Marine units. I'd like to get a jumper here if possible, too," Elizabeth said.

"John was adamant that no jumpers be brought here after what happened on the Genii home world."

"I know," Elizabeth sighed, frustrated. "I'll talk to Lorne about it first. Maybe there's a way we can get the jumper here without anyone noticing. I would feel better having some kind of backup."

Carson watched Teyla nod then stand abruptly. "If you don't mind, I would like to continue searching. I find it difficult to believe John would not inform us at all of where he was going."

"Of course, Teyla," Elizabeth answered, and the Athosian slipped out of the room, her face intent. Carson yawned, feeling fatigue pull at him.

"You need to rest," Elizabeth said softly. "You were exhausted even before you were attacked."

"I have a concussion. I'm not supposed to sleep," he grumbled, but he was exhausted. He let his eyes slip closed but the thought persisted. "I really shouldn't fall asleep."

"It's alright, Carson. The doctors here checked you over—you only have a mild concussion. We are under strict orders to wake you every couple of hours today, so you just relax. I'll be right here."

He really couldn't argue with that. His head was pounding, and his body wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. He let himself relax into the bed, but now that he was trying, sleep was elusive. He could feel Elizabeth sitting in the chair next to him, but he lay still with his eyes closed, hoping his mind would eventually settle.

A minute or two later, he heard the door crack open, then Teyla's whispered voice.

"Elizabeth, I've found something."

The seriousness of Teyla's voice almost had Carson opening his eyes and attempting to sit up, but he was overwhelmed with lethargy. He wondered if it had something to do with whatever medication the hospital had given him. His arms felt heavy, every muscle deeply relaxed.

"I stopped by the nurses station and one of them handed me this," she continued. Carson couldn't see what _this_ was, but he heard the faint crinkling of paper.

"This is John's handwriting."

"Yes, it is. I believe he did leave a note for us after all. The nurse who handed it to me apologized and said it had slid behind some folders on their desk. She had just found it and was about to come give it to us."

_What did it say?_ Carson wanted to scream, to know what had happened to his friend, but the headache was unrelenting, and his body seemed to have finally decided it was ready to go back to sleep. He fought the fatigue off as long as he could, but he knew he was losing the battle fast.

"Who is Ronon?" Elizabeth asked.

"He was the other man injured during the last mission. He led the rescue team that saved John and the squadron we were fighting with from the Wraith."

"'I'll catch up with you guys at dinner tonight,'" Elizabeth quoted. "Sounds like he left here and went straight to the military base to find this Ronon Dex."

"Yes, I believe so. Elizabeth, I would like to go to the base to see if they saw John at all. It might help us track him down. Perhaps Ronon could help us as well."

"I don't know that I like the idea of you going alone, Teyla. How do we know Ronon isn't involved in John's disappearance?"

"I will be fine. I intend only to speak with the administrative staff at the base. And I saw Specialist Dex in action—he did not strike me as the type who would attack us without provocation, but I will be careful."

The military base. Ronon Dex. Mission. The words floated through Carson's mind. Elizabeth and Teyla were still talking, but he couldn't focus any more. Maybe John was still on the base. Maybe they would find him there—safe and sound. It was a pleasant thought, and it followed him as he finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The military base was quiet. It was still early, and the city had looked like it was just picking up, but there was hardly a sound as Teyla walked up to the large gate. A young woman sat in the small stall next to the stone fence, reading a newspaper in her lap.

Teyla tapped on the window, and the guard looked up in surprise. She set the newspaper on the table and slid the window open, leaning her head out to talk to Teyla.

"May I help you?"

Teyla glanced down at the newspaper. The large headline announced the alliance and planet-wide holiday for the celebration. The lack of activity humming around the base suddenly clicked in her mind. Staff was no doubt down to a bare minimum because of the holiday.

"My name is Teyla Emmagen. I'm here with the delegation from…Canada," Teyla said, bringing all of her diplomatic skills to bear. The young woman's eyes had widened, and she'd grabbed her newspaper and flipped it open.

"Here you are," the guard said. She flipped the paper around to show Teyla a picture of the entire team. It looked like it had been taken right after they'd first arrived through the stargate. Teyla could clearly see herself at the center of the photo, standing next to Elizabeth. John was directly behind her, a half smile on his face as he looked at something off to the side of the photographer.

She swallowed the lump in her throat at the sight of him. "Yes, that is correct. Three of us participated in a mission with one of your squadrons, and I was hoping to speak to someone here in regards to that."

She knew she was being too vague, but she had no idea what the young guard needed to hear to let her in. Teyla was afraid the guard would press her for more information, or refuse to let her in at all on the grounds that most of the base had cleared out for the holiday.

Her fears, however, were unfounded. The guard nodded and stepped out of her stall, pushing the gate open with ease. Teyla raised her eyebrows in surprise and glanced at the guard.

The guard looked a little sheepish and shrugged at her. "I think the gate's more to stop random civilians from wandering in. It's not like we have a lot of enemies on Sateda trying to get in here, and there are additional security measures in place in the more sensitive areas of the base. Besides, General Tremek gave orders to let the off-worlders…uh, you…onto the base whenever you wanted."

Teyla nodded. Sateda seemed remarkably open about letting her on base, especially compared to the security measures the Atlantis expedition and Earth's military usually followed. What was the expression John liked to use? Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth? It was one of their stranger idioms, but she understood the gist of it.

"Thank you very much," she said.

A few minutes later, she was walking toward the main administrative building. The guard had given her a map and started her off in the right direction, and on the whole acted a little in awe of Teyla. Teyla knew most people on Sateda rarely left the comfort of their own world, but she was starting to understand more fully the excitement the presence of off-world visitors had caused. Only certain members of the military, political, and commercial sectors seemed to have any natural familiarity dealing with non-Satedans.

The building was open but quiet. Another guard sat just inside the door and informed her that officially, no one was working today but he wasn't sure if anyone had shown up unofficially. He shrugged when she asked if he knew who Ronon was, and shrugged again when she wanted to check the building for possible unofficial workers, then settled back to a book of word puzzles on his desk.

Teyla walked the halls, knocking on the occasional door, but so far she'd found no one. On the third floor, she was about to turn back and admit defeat when she noticed the far door was slightly ajar. All she needed was someone to tell her where Ronon worked. She'd left the actual note with Elizabeth, but the words were burned into her mind.

_Stopping by the base to thank Ronon Dex in person. I'll catch up with you all around dinner—John._

The door at the end of the hallway had General Tremek's name etched into a plaque and affixed to the wall. She knocked lightly, but she could see the room inside was dark. She pressed it open, letting the door swing open into the quiet front room of the office. She waited a second or two before stepping in, goose bumps breaking out over her arms. Her body thrummed with sudden tension, and she glanced around, looking for the cause.

She seemed to be alone. She could hear nothing but her own breathing. The desk off to the side was cleared of papers, and the chair was pushed in. Clearly, whoever sat here had been not been planning to work today. Sofas pressed against the walls in the rest of the room, and a small filing cabinet sat in one corner.

Behind the empty desk was another door, shut tight. Teyla stepped toward it and rested her hand against the knob. The metal was cool. Any warmth that might have revealed the presence of another had long since evaporated. She rattled the handle and was surprised to find it unlocked as well. She pushed it open, letting it swing into the blackness of the back office like she had before, and she braced herself for a startled yelp or a rushing attack.

Silence. The back office was just as quiet and empty as the front one. She shook off her feelings of unease and stepped into the room. There was no reason for her to be worried. She thought of the general fighting for his life in the hospital and wondered if that was the reason for her discomfort. This felt an awful lot like rummaging through the belongings of a dead man.

Tremek's desk was a disaster—papers strewn all over it in a chaotic mess. Teyla had only met the man briefly, but she was not altogether surprised at the disarray of his personal space. He had reminded her a lot of John in some respects. He was certainly the type who preferred to be outside in the middle of the action versus stuck behind a desk doing paperwork. She flipped the light on and began rifling through some of the stacks of paper. She might as well do a little investigating since she was here.

She had no idea what she was looking for. Most of the papers appeared to be various mission reports from different squadrons and sectors of the base. There were reports on the military's preparedness, personnel changes that needed to be approved, a future visit to the base in the Southern Coastal Region, a memo from President Nurif about the Presidential guard unit at the palace, another memo requiring a decision on what type of food to serve at a large military dinner…

The paperwork was endless. Teyla sighed and continued to dig through the piles, wondering how long it would be before the guard downstairs remembered she was here and came looking for her. Probably not anytime soon, given his disgruntled shrugging when she'd interrupted his work on his puzzle book.

She pulled out a folder near the bottom of one of the piles and flipped it open. The picture of a man smiled back at her. He was older with deep wrinkles around his bright blue eyes. His gray hair reached his shoulders, neatly combed—the look of a man who clearly took pride in his appearance.

She flipped to the next page and spotted a name at the top. Gilm Langus. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't pinpoint when she had heard it before. She looked back at the photograph and wondered if it was this man, Langus. There were other papers in the folder, all referring back to him. A significant part of it appeared to be his military service record.

The very last page caught her eye and she pulled it out. The rest of the file began to slide through her fingers, and she scrambled to keep a hold of all the papers. The last page slipped out of her hand and fluttered slowly to the floor, disappearing behind the desk.

Teyla set the rest of the file among the mass of piles and walked around the desk. The paper was nowhere in sight. She stepped back and scanned the floor. Her eyes were tired and the stress of the previous night was pressing down upon her. She was used to little sleep in times of emergency, but the long hours of waiting and searching would run her into the ground long before the adrenaline rush of action did.

She caught a flash of white and could just make out the corner of the lost page under a bookshelf against the wall behind the desk. She stepped forward and heard the floor creak behind her. The light from the desk lamp cast distorted shadows against the wall to her right.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an arm rushing toward her head, and then, nothing.

.

.

.

.

.

"Teyla?"

"Should we call someone? We should call someone. You—what's your name—make yourself useful. Do you have a phone? Telephone? Radio? 9-1-1 Emergency. Why are you just standing there?"

Teyla groaned at the onslaught of noise that suddenly intruded upon her consciousness.

"I think she's coming around."

"You think? That's reassuring."

"McKay…"

Teyla could hear the panic in Rodney's voice and the irritation in Lorne's. She forced her eyes open, moaning at the stabs of pain rolling through her eyes. Her head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton.

"Teyla?" Lorne called out again.

"Major?" she whispered back. She was lying on a hard floor, between a solid wood desk and a wall. Lorne was kneeling next to her, his hand on her shoulder.

"What happened? Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Rodney bounced behind her, fear dancing in his eyes. Next to him, the guard with the puzzle book looked anxiously between the three of them.

"I think I am alright," she answered. She glanced at the room around her and remembered the general's office. "Help me up, please."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Lorne objected, but he grabbed onto her arm and helped her sit anyway.

Her stomach churned and she pressed a fist against it. She could feel Lorne's steadying hand on her back, but she let her body lean into the side of the desk as she breathed through the nausea. There was an odd, bitter taste in her mouth, and her ears felt as if she were submerged underwater.

"You just went really pale on us, Teyla," Lorne said.

She glanced up at him, and saw the tightening worry flash across his face.

"I will be fine."

"What happened to you?" Rodney burst out, waving his arms. The guard next to him flinched.

"I am not sure," she answered, trying to pull herself together. "I believe I may have been attacked."

"Were you hit in the head?" Rodney dropped down to look at her, resting a hand on her outstretched leg.

Teyla shook her head, then closed her eyes at the movement. The office teetered around her for a moment, but when it settled again, her head felt a little less stuffed. Her stomach had stopped its threatening protests as well, and she squirmed on the hard, uncomfortable floor. She swallowed against the stale, tart taste coating her tongue.

"No, I was not. I believe I may have been rendered unconscious with some kind of drug or chemical, though. I remember someone reaching for me from behind, but nothing after that."

Lorne and Rodney glanced at each other, and then Rodney was standing up, questioning the young guard intensely. Teyla grabbed onto Lorne's shoulder and pulled herself to her feet, swaying dangerously. She felt Lorne wrap an arm around her waist to steady her. He spoke quietly in her ear but she couldn't hear him over the sound of rushing water in her head. The dizziness struck again, and she buried her face into his shoulder, too desperate about staying upright to worry about the familiarity of the gesture and whether he might view it as inappropriate.

She was marginally aware that they were moving from the back office into a much brighter space, and then he felt him lowering her down. She opened her eyes just as she felt the sofa underneath her and realized they had all moved to the front part of the office.

"Lost you for a second there," Lorne said, kneeling down to look at her.

Teyla took a couple of deep breaths and smiled back at him. Or tried to. She was not sure she was altogether successful. If she'd been hoping to give him some assurance that she was fine, the shakiness of her expression had not been even remotely successful. She slumped back into the sofa and let her head rest against the wall. Lorne watched her, half of his face covered in a spectacular bruise, and Teyla wondered if he was fighting off his own headache.

"Do you have any water?"

"Yes, of course," he answered. He uncapped the canteen and held it out to her, and she was pleased to see her hand was steady. Whatever chemical she had inhaled was starting to wear off. She could feel her strength returning and the haziness in her head dissipating.

Rodney finally seemed convinced she wasn't about to drop dead on them, and he pushed the guard out of the office before dropping into the seat next to hers. The two men sat there for a moment as she sipped at the canteen, occasionally glancing at each other, and her head finally cleared enough for her to realize something else was going on. There was another source of tension twisting around them, and barely concealed grief deep in their eyes.

"What is it?"

"What do you mean?" Rodney asked, but he looked away from her and stared at the floor.

"Major?"

Lorne had been looking down, but at the sound of his rank, he looked up at Teyla and his eyes flooded with too many emotions to contain. Teyla felt dread wash over her, and she didn't want to hear the answer. Her heart thudded in her chest begging her to take back the question, but her mind pressed forward, pinning the man down before her and unwilling to let him escape.

"We got a message from the police this morning, maybe an hour after you left," he said, then paused. He took a deep breath before continuing, and Teyla heard the air whistle through his nose. "There was some kind of altercation here last night. The military security forces have been investigating the incident, but they just now thought to inform us of…"

"Of what?" she asked. She tried to sip more of the water, but her throat was closing in on itself, and she set the canteen on her leg.

Lorne looked over at Rodney, and she saw the physicist nod in resignation.

"It's Sheppard," Rodney said. "The military police guys believe Sheppard was somehow involved in whatever happened."

"Is he alright?" she pressed, fighting the urge to yell at them. Why wouldn't they just tell her already?

"No," Rodney answered, and then his voice broke, forcing him to stop and swallow. Grief broke through the creases in his face, and his shoulders sagged at the weight. "They said John was shot, that he was killed."

She knew that was what they'd been working toward, but her mind still rebelled at hearing the words. It was not possible. John could not be dead. It had only been a few short months since they'd lost Aiden—she could not lose John, too. She was shaking her head in denial without realizing it, and she forced it to stop.

"How do they know? Did you see John's…" Body. She could not bring herself to say the word.

Lorne and Rodney were both shaking their heads, and Lorne finally answered. "They said he was thrown backward down a steep embankment when he was shot, and his body was washed away in the river. They're still searching for it, but…"

It was too much information to take in, and Teyla felt her head swim with the overload. "Then how do they know it was John?"

"That's what we asked them. They described him exactly to us, right down to the spiky hair. Apparently he was shot in the head. Between that and the river…they're not giving us much hope."

"I cannot believe this. I will not believe this." She looked up at Rodney, searching his face for…something. An unwillingness to give up? A determination to keep looking? An inner knowledge that John was still alive?

He was staring back at her, seeming to search her face for the answer to those same questions. When their eyes met, he nodded.

"We'll keep looking, Teyla. No matter what. We won't give up on him."

TBC…


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13_

A stranger stood in the shadows, raising his arm in the dark—a silhouette against a black sky, yet oddly visible. He had an arm with a gun growing out of the hand. The man spoke, then smiled—a cruel-looking bald man with black pits for eyes.

The storm raged all around them, but there was no sound. There was a flash of light, and the arm with the gun jerked at the clapping sound of distant thunder that was felt but not heard.

The light illuminated for a split second teeth and a smile curled grotesquely around a disfigured face—human, but in the shadows appearing more like a mutated corpse. It was replaced a second later with another reflected face panicked and screaming, blood pouring from a gash across the side of the head, dark hair and hazel eyes—familiar yet not—almost obscured by the blood that flowed from the head down the face and into a dark shirt.

And then cold—bitter, ice cold water that cut through every nerve. The familiar-yet-not-familiar face came up gasping for air and choking, only to be pulled back under into the black void of the cold, and then a man would step out from the shadows, raising his arm again. A flash of light, the feeling of thunder, the smiling teeth, the bloodied reflection of a face in water, the shock of cold—again and again and again...

Numbness gave way to pain, instantaneously and all-consuming, and in the corner of the man's mind, he knew the dreams had stopped. This was real. He felt hands all over his body pulling him up from the depths of oblivion. He tried to squirm away, but each tiny movement sent fire bolts of agony racing through every nerve in every part of his entire body.

"Calm down. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you," a woman cried out, her voice shrill. But she was hurting him. Everything was hurting him.

"Is he awake? What's happening?" A man's voice sounded close and more panicked than the woman's.

_What are you doing to me? What do you want? What's happening?_ He wanted to scream the questions, but the pain radiating around him strangled any attempt at making a coherent sound. He heard a soft, pitiful moan and wondered if it came from the panicked man or the woman.

"His head is bleeding again."

"I know. Hand me my bag."

There was a rustling, then a sudden explosion of pain on the side of his head, and he screamed, his voice breaking through the shell of pain and cracking his world into splinters. He jerked involuntarily, half thinking that he could shake the grip of pain digging into his head, but his body continued to shake, twisting and contorting against the hands pinning him down.

"What's happening?" the panicked man yelled.

"He's having a seizure. Help me hold him so he doesn't hurt himself…"

His body stilled, suddenly and with no conscious thought of his own, and he realized it was dark—completely black. He tried to open his eyes, or move his arms, or speak, but nothing responded. Trapped, paralyzed, dead—

"Is he…? He looks dead."

He felt hands on his face, then in his mouth, prying open his jaw and pushing against his tongue. Was he dead? He could be dead. He saw only darkness.

"He's still breathing. Heartbeat's a little too fast, but that's normal," the woman talked, a string of words mumbling out to surround him in the darkness, almost incomprehensible. He felt a lance of fear shoot through him. _What happened to me? Where am I? What's going on?_

He tried to yell but managed no more than a whimper of pain. He felt the soft brush of exhaled air against his lips. A hand touched his face, rough but gentle as it patted the side of his cheek. He tried to lift his own hand, to grab the hand that touched him, then remembered he couldn't move.

Trapped, paralyzed, dead.

Panic welled up within him. He should be able to move. Why couldn't he move? What had happened? The nightmarish images of the man in the shadows and the bloody face in the water washed through his mind again.

More hands were on him, pressing down on arms and legs and chest and stomach. He gasped at the pain that throbbed through him. The hands changed position, and then suddenly the entire world jilted. He was moving, rolling, being lifted, spinning…

"Easy, it's okay. We're just trying to take care of you." The woman again, as gentle and calm as ever. He wanted to hear the man, the one who was panicking, because it seemed like that man understood better that this was a moment for panicking. A face flashed through his mind—short dark hair, blue eyes, a strident voice.

He swung under the powerful grip of the hands and felt a soft surface swing beneath him swaying in time with his own movements. Maybe he wasn't moving at all? The pain from earlier tripled in intensity until he could hardly breathe. He wanted to open his eyes, to tell the hands to _stop moving_. Gentle hands grabbed both sides of his face as he sunk deeper into a soft surface.

"That's it, just relax," the woman soothed. Her voice grew quiet then, like she was speaking from far away. "I need to look at the wound in his head, make sure none of the stitches were torn. Can you help me hold his head up?"

"Yeah, alright. Whatever you need," the panicked man spoke breathlessly.

"I really wish we could take him to a hospital. I don't know if I can help him."

"You are helping him, Melena. It's been two days and he's still alive." The panicked man's voice had switched to calm and reassuring.

Pain pulsed through him, but he frowned at the words, reaching for some sense but the sounds swirled unintelligibly through his aching mind.

"That doesn't mean he'll recover, and frankly, I can't keep him going forever on just IVs. He needs more help than I can give him here. Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Hold him here, and lift slowly."

Pain exploded in the man's head, and he screamed, the first and only understandable sound he had heard since waking up. He arched against the soft surface below him and the hands digging painfully into him, desperate to keep him still. Voices erupted in alarm, but the last thing he heard before sinking into the cold depths of darkness was the sound of his own pain-filled cry.

* * *

The first thing to break through the darkness was the smell of wood burning. The man floated in the fog between awake and asleep with memories of campfires and wood burning stoves shifting in and out. Light touches on his skin pulled him up even further into the realm of the living, but he resisted. The darkness was warm and quiet.

The smell of wood grew stronger, and he heard the faint crackling of a log in a fire. Muted pain began pulling at the corners of his mind, growing increasingly more insistent. Hands moved over him, pressing a little more firmly and awaking a fiery ache in his chest, stomach, and head.

The smell was wrong. The wood made him think of camping and outdoors and sleeping under the stars, but his body expected different smells and different sounds. A soft bed underneath him told him he was indoors, but the smell of smoke and burning coals said otherwise.

A breath of cool air hit bare skin, and he shivered, which in turn ignited a deeper pain throughout his body. He realized belatedly that his chest was mostly bare. Something tight and constricting was wrapped around his body, moving when he moved. Hands were once again pushing and pulling on his skin, and he moaned in response.

"Are you awake?" a voice called out softly, but he let it drift away, and the blackness surrounding him grew impossibly darker. Footsteps tapped across the room, growing fainter until they disappeared completely.

He finally worked up the energy to peel his eyes open, and a simple room came into focus around him. He lay in a bed situated in the center. A faded quilt was pulled up to his waist, leaving arms and chest uncovered. To his left, curtains fluttered in the cool breeze drifting through the open window. At his feet, a small fireplace crackled and puffed heat into the room. A desk and chair sat in one corner, a small chest in another.

_This is wrong,_ he thought. _It should be…different. Different colors. Different smells. Different sounds._ He flashed to the reflection of a man with dark hair and hazel eyes staring up at him in still water, and he moved his hand up toward his face. In the memory, the man's face had been covered in blood. His arm was heavy and uncoordinated, but it moved. He let it drop against his face, breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of blood there. He moved his hand higher, toward his hair and an ache that was growing sharper and more uncomfortable. Limp fingers brushed against heavy bandages around his head.

"What?" he croaked, his voice weak and hoarse. His arm flopped back on the bed. He tried to lift his head but the sharp ache lanced into breathtaking agony. He squeezed his eyes shut with a gasp until the flaring pain dulled back down.

He shivered again against a stronger breeze. The air was like icy tendrils creeping along skin slick with sweat. He forced his eyes open again to look down at his chest, and started in shock. Dark bruises marred one side of his chest, and his right arm lay limp and tightly bandaged next to it. No amount of effort could make that arm move, but he wasn't sure he wanted it to. An angry squawk had begun to make itself known deep in the bone.

Another bandage was wrapped around his chest, the black and purple bruises disappearing beneath its protective embrace. His stomach hurt—not just nauseated or flu-ish. He felt like his gut had been pummeled with fists.

Maybe it had. His heart began pounding in his chest, and he paused, listening for a sound he thought should be there, keeping time with his beating heart, but the room was wrapped in silence and he wondered what had made him think there would be a sound.

"What…happened?" he called out again, his voice a little stronger from the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He tried to lift his arms up, and managed to move the left one, but his right arm exploded in agony at the attempt. His stomach churned at the onslaught of pain, and he swallowed back the bile that suddenly surged into this throat. He breathed in a heaving gasp, then choked at the sensation of ribs pulling away from muscle and skin.

A painful groan shuddered out of him, and the quiet room was suddenly filled with the sound of rushing wind battering him back into darkness. Distantly, he heard footsteps and cries of alarm.

The pain was relentless, and he wanted nothing more than to succumb to it, but hands moving across his bare chest and stomach jerked him back into reality. When he finally opened his eyes, a young woman hovered above him. He could see her lips moving, but the ringing in his ears drowned out everything around him.

The woman ran the backs of her fingers down the side of his cheek. Who was the woman? There was something almost familiar about her, like he'd talked to her over the phone but never face-to-face. He lay perfectly still, willing the pain to either go away or overtake him completely.

He coughed suddenly, a dry, harsh sound scraping out the back of his throat. The woman reached for something out of sight. A minute later, she was holding a small syringe with one hand and gently lifting one of his arms. He jerked at the sight of the needle moving toward the IV taped to his forearm, but the slight movement was enough to ignite the dull ache into raking agony, and the edges of his vision grayed out.

_Where am I? What's going on? _The questions raced through his mind, and he seemed to recall asking them before, but he wasn't sure if they'd ever been answered. He needed to get out of here. He needed to go somewhere safe, to find his friends. He needed to go home…

_H__ome._

The word had no other images connected to it. No buildings, no faces, nothing he knew. He didn't know _home._ Where was _home?_ Where was safe? And a second later, with a jolt, he realized he didn't know who he was. A face reflected in water flashed through his mind, searing the nerves of his memories in its wake. Dark hair, hazel eyes. Blood.

_Who am I? Where am I? What happened to me?_

He took in a deep shuddering breath against the panic tearing through him, and he blinked to bring the room back into focus. His head throbbed and the world spun around him until he saw nothing but a blurring mass of colors rocking in a storm-tossed sea. The woman was talking again, injecting whatever was in the syringe into the IV port on his arm.

It stung like hell, and he gagged at the sensation, but it was a half-hearted attempt. The pain in his body immediately began to dull into a spreading numbness and the need to throw up subsided.

_The good stuff._ He smiled, then faltered. _What is the good stuff?_

The woman said something else to him, and he blinked at her. She was small but there was a glint of strength in her eye. If she was on his side, he was safe. If not, he was a dead man_—_the eyes said it all, and they roved down his body, cataloguing his injuries as she pulled the needle away_._

"What…" he whispered, but didn't have the words or the energy to say more.

"You've been badly injured," she answered.

His eyes were drifting closed, heavy with exhaustion, but they snapped up at her words. _Badly injured. Something had happened, but what?_

He opened his mouth to ask, but his lips refused to form around the words. What had happened? His mind was screaming and he shook his head against the panic causing it to flare with pain. His stomach tightened and he felt nausea coil around his gut beneath the spreading numbness of whatever had been in that needle.

He gagged before he realized what was happening, and the woman twisted out of his way. She had a hand on his back and she pulled him onto his side. His body screamed in protest at the movement, but the _good stuff_ was pumping through his veins now, and he swallowed the gagging before he actually threw up. He breathed heavily, and warm spit dribbled down the side of his cheek.

Wind breezed through the window again, crisp and with the scent of rain. The woman was easing him back toward the bed. He had been cold the entire time. He was pretty sure of that, but it was only just now coming to him. The room was cold, except for his feet, where a fire blazed smelling of camping and outdoors and vacations and…

Blankets were piled up on top of him, but he lacked the energy to open his eyes and look around. Danger lurked around the edges, but he was too exhausted to give it much heed. He shook under the blankets like a new recruit on his first day of boot camp.

Warmth gathered around his trembling form. Fingers brushed against his cheek, and the rhythmic motion lulled him closer to sleep. He was overcome with lethargy as the last of his energy drained out of limp, heavy limbs, but sleep darted just out of reach. He sagged deeper into the bed and the last of the pain finally dulled into nothing.

_The good stuff, _he thought again even as the room and the woman faded and he slid into a deep sleep.

* * *

"Ronon, you're back! I was starting to get nervous. Did anyone say anything to you? Or recognize you?"

"No. I haven't been here in years. I doubt they'd know who I was."

"But no one asked any questions…"

"One guy. Shopkeeper. Told him I was heading south to the cliffs and just stopping in for some food and supplies."

The injured man heard the voices at the foot of his bed, but the memory of pain thrumming through his body was close to the surface, and he refused to move. He knew he had dark hair and hazel eyes—the memory of his face in water, covered in blood, could be no one else's. He felt that this was his face, but his name still eluded him.

"That bread smells like heaven. Is it the kind with the nuts?"

"Yeah, knew you'd like it."

"Are you trying to flatter me, Ronon Dex?"

He'd been awake for awhile but time was immeasurable. His head pounded with every breath, and his ribs and stomach were tight and sore. He'd been pummeled into the ground, stood back up, and pummeled again.

The voices whispered softly, to low for him to make out the words. Was he safe? Were they going to hurt him? He remembered the woman and the way her eyes had stared at him. She was kind and compassionate, but there was a wall of iron there. If she was going to help him, she'd do everything she could for him. Otherwise, he had to escape.

"Did you hear any news? Anything about Sheppard?"

"Yeah. The newspaper is reporting he's missing, possibly dead—the whole alliance is in jeopardy. The government is offering a huge reward for any information on what happened to him," a man answered, and it was the panicked man, but now he sounded calm, in control. "They even have a picture—look."

"He looks so different, so…healthy," the woman said.

"He was healthy."

"What if we contact his people now? Take him straight to the Presidential Palace?"

Images floated through his mind—a huge palace, a carved staircase, a stained glass window. He could almost smell chocolate chip cookies, whipped up by the cooks and hand delivered by…by a man…he couldn't remember his name. It had been there, on the tip of his tongue. A man with dark hair and kind blue eyes, a lilt when he spoke so that no matter what happened to any of them, they always knew they were home when they heard that voice.

_Home._

He whispered the word, letting images of glass towers and water and smiling faces coil around in his mind. He could almost grab onto the memories, but they dissolved into nothing the harder he tried to concentrate. His head was pounding again, sharp lances cutting through his temples behind his eyes, and he panted against the pain.

"I think he's waking up again," the woman said. "John? Can you hear me?"

He couldn't breathe. The harder he tried, the tighter his chest became. Muscles locked up against the agony, their protective wall suffocating him. He moaned, and the small sound splintered through his head.

"Hold his head," the woman commanded, and a warm hand slid behind his head. "I don't want him moving around too much. He could injure himself further."

He felt other hands on his body, pulling the blankets down to his waist and pressing into his injuries. He opened his eyes to slits and saw a large man leaning over him. His head was a mass of dreadlocks. He knew him—he knew the dreadlocked man. His eyes shifted to the woman on the other side, digging through a black bag. She turned to look at him, and her eyes softened in concern. He waited for the lilting voice, but it never came.

"Hang on, John. Everything's going to be okay. Keep breathing, in and out."

She held a needle up, tapping the side with a finger. Whatever was inside had a faint pinkish color, and he remembered how the pain had disappeared to numbness before. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, silently begging her to take away the pain again. She did, and his body relaxed its grip on the agony assaulting him. He felt himself sink into the dreadlocked man's hand.

_What happened?_ he wanted to ask, but while his lips moved, no sound emerged. He felt his eyelids pulling down of their own accord. He needed to ask them…he needed to know...

He couldn't remember what he needed to know. There had been pain, but the kind steel-woman and the dreadlocked man had taken it away, and he let himself drift into painless oblivion.

* * *

A stranger stood in the shadows.

"No," he whispered. "Please…"

"Sshhh, it's okay," a woman answered. "You've been badly injured."

Hands pressed against him, leaving ghostly impressions but trailing agony in their wake. He saw a face—a man with dark hair and hazel eyes. Blood poured from his head, down his face, and into a dark shirt.

He gasped for air against bitter, ice cold water and choked at the sight of a man stepping out from the shadows, raising his arm.

"Please," the face in the water begged.

"Sshhh," whispered a woman, but she held him painfully in a tight grip.

A man stepped out from the shadows again, raising his arm against a flash of light. Thunder and smiling teeth leapt toward him, and the bloodied reflection of the face in the water sank into icy black depths.

TBC…


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14_

Rodney McKay stared out across the grassy field to the rippling river below him. He stood on the edge of the steep embankment, an imagined image of Sheppard tumbling head over heels down its slope and into the water replaying again and again in his mind. Behind him, canvas tents lay in cabled rows. In front of him, on the other side of the river, a forest popped into existence, thick and wild-looking.

The sun was warm and beating down on the back of his neck, and he chugged the water in his canteen. It was an idyllic setting. Rodney wasn't exactly the outdoorsy, nature-y type, but he appreciated natural beauty when he saw it. If only he could look at it and not see Sheppard's blood, not see his friend's body with a bullet in the head. He shook his head as the image forced its way to the forefront of his mind, and he tried to tell himself it wasn't real.

In reality, they had found very little. They'd received the message regarding the altercation and Sheppard's alleged death yesterday morning, and it was now almost evening of the following day. Elizabeth had managed to talk the President into bringing four full Marine units in to help with the search, and all of them—including a concussed Beckett—had spent all of that time searching for any sign that Sheppard had even been there.

Teyla had adamantly refused to believe he was dead. Rodney wasn't sure she believed he could die. He shook his head and kicked at a rock near his foot. He watched it bounce down the slope and into the water. Sheppard was missing, possibly dead. Carson had been attacked, and then a few hours later, Teyla had been attacked. All three of those events had to be connected. Lorne had also been attacked, but for entirely different reasons involving vast amounts of alcohol, so that couldn't be included in the overall assessment. Teyla's attack had been much less aggressive than Carson's, but Carson had apparently taken them by surprise—not that his endless reviews of the video footage had told him anything useful whatsoever. If Sheppard had also taken them by surprise, it stood to reason he would also have been treated violently.

Rodney shook his head again. He did not like the path those thoughts were leading him down, but his mind continued to whirl of its own accord. Teyla had been attacked in Tremek's office and Carson had been attacked in Tremek's hospital room, so the general was also somehow connected to this whole scheme. Did he know where Sheppard was? He'd been brought into the hospital the same night Sheppard had disappeared, so the timing was close but it was still possible.

He glanced up and down the river, and saw Lorne walking toward him from downstream. They'd been up and down the river bank for two days without a single sign of Sheppard's whereabouts anywhere. Lorne's bruise had grown dark, almost black, and it made him look a little angry and out of control. Two of the Marine units were spread out behind him, searching fruitlessly. The other two, Rodney knew, were scouring the city, and he hoped they were having more luck. Caldwell—via the SGC, via Atlantis—had promised to join them as soon as possible, but the Daedalus had been almost all the way back to Earth. It would be weeks before it could get to Sateda.

Lorne glanced up and saw Rodney, and climbed the slope toward him without a word. They'd long since stopped asking each other if they'd found anything. Lorne stopped next to him and pulled out his canteen, taking a long swig while staring at the tents. The celebration of the new alliance had been called off the day before, but it had been too late to cancel the holiday, so most of the base was still empty. For most of Sateda, the delay simply meant more days off work in the near future.

"I should have finished those transmitters," Rodney said, breaking the heavy silence.

"What transmitters?" Lorne asked.

"The ones the SGC just developed. They get injected just below the skin. If Sheppard had one of those, we'd know exactly where he was. We'd never lose him again."

"Why don't we have them?"

Rodney grimaced, feeling his face flush. He was the reason no one had them yet. He had insisted he be allowed to adjust them so that they could interact with their Ancient equipment. It was one thing to have the Daedalus scan for the transmitters, but more likely it would be jumpers or one of their handheld devices. He'd had to know they would be picked up by any type of scanner—whether it be Earth-made or Ancient.

"We're still adjusting them to interact with Ancient technology," he answered, avoiding Lorne's look and not clarifying who the _we _was in his answer.

Lorne didn't respond, and the idle talk fluttered away from them on the breeze. It was all well and good to wish Sheppard had one of those transmitters to lead them right to him, but he didn't. They didn't know where he was or where to start.

He'd thought they'd lost Teyla as well the morning before. They'd tried to contact her as soon as they'd received the news about Sheppard, and she hadn't answered. He and Lorne had rushed to the base and discovered her on the floor of Tremek's office, dead to the world. Rodney had been convinced that his last remaining teammate was gone—ripped away from him—and he'd determined to go back to his lab and never allow himself to get that close to people again.

The relief he'd felt when Lorne had said she was still alive had almost bowled him over. The room had spun a little and the young kid supposedly guarding the building had grabbed his arm in alarm. Luckily, Lorne's attentions had been focused on Teyla and he hadn't seen Rodney's slight lightheadedness. Rodney had shoved the kid's hand off of him and glared until the kid had backed away a few steps.

Teyla had taken the news of Sheppard's death about the way he'd expected. They had described him perfectly, but the newspapers were covered with their photos. Neither the military security forces nor the city policy had been able to offer any proof that Sheppard was dead.

_Hell, they didn't even know if he'd made it to the base in the first place._

Teyla had insisted they continue searching the office and had pushed past them into the back office only to cry out in shock. Rodney had followed her and found her pointing at Tremek's desk. He had no idea what he was supposed be looking at—it looked like any other polished wood desk in two galaxies.

But there'd been papers and files and photos. Teyla had insisted on it despite the fact that there had not been a single paper on the desk she'd been pointing at. She'd also been positive she'd found something, and whoever had attacked her must have thought so too. They'd taken everything.

Well, not quite everything. Teyla had dropped to the floor, and for a second, Rodney had been convinced she'd passed out again, but then she'd emerged triumphantly with a dusty piece of paper that had slid under the bookshelf behind the desk. They'd poured over it, then brought it back to the hospital to show Carson and Elizabeth. It had been some kind of coroner's report on the death of another military man, apparently a suicide. There were question marks near some of the notes, but it had been impossible to tell whether the coroner had made them or Tremek. Whoever it was hadn't been entirely convinced the suicide ruling was accurate. Was it yet another attack?

Rodney looked back at the river behind him, then squinted up at the setting sun. It would be dark soon. Another full day of turning up nothing. He knew that the bits of half information was wearing all of them down to the point of collapse, but part of him irrationally believed that if he didn't say it out loud, they would all carry on endlessly, searching for Sheppard until they found the answers they wanted.

His stomach rumbled, insisting on food. It had been hours since he'd last eaten anything. Lorne stood frozen next to him, making no move to leave the embankment. Rodney's made-up memory of Sheppard being shot and falling down the slope replayed again in his head. Why couldn't he just shut his brain off for a few minutes? Sleep had been nearly impossible, and the nightmares had just moved into the light of day as if they belonged there—as if they had actually happened.

He reconnected the dots between Sheppard, Teyla, Carson, and Tremek. Did this other dead guy have something to do with it as well? Gilm something. He'd killed himself or had been killed the day before they'd arrived—the connection didn't seem likely, and he wanted to dismiss it outright, but the Satedan military was clearly in the middle of this whole situation.

He took a step away from the river, glancing at Lorne as he moved. The major followed him, his eyes distant and his attention obviously elsewhere, although he did radio the Marines to call it a night. They walked back through the rows of tents toward the main gate, and Rodney wished someone had thought to provide them with some kind of transportation.

The city police had washed their hands of the situation once the military had reported the altercation on the base. It was out of their jurisdiction—that had been the excuse. The military had offered to help, but that had so far consisted only of giving the Atlanteans free reign anywhere on Sateda to search for Sheppard. The attack on General Tremek and an attempt on the President's life had diverted all of their resources away from Sheppard to "more pressing matters."

Rodney pushed through the gate and stepped over the official boundary line between military and civilian life. The Marine units left ahead of them, heading back to the gate. Despite Nurif's willingness to do just about anything to ensure their future alliance, he wasn't thrilled with the idea of letting Atlantean military units roam the countryside freely. He'd compromised, letting the units come to help with the search during the day but returning back to Atlantis at night.

He and Lorne caught the next passing public van back toward their residence, arriving just as the sun set. They hadn't spoken much, too tired and worried for small talk. They stumbled through the door and into the living room, where Carson, Elizabeth, and Teyla sat deep in conversation.

"Anything?" Elizabeth asked, and Rodney shook his head. He dropped into the seat next to Carson, exhausted.

"We managed to make some discreet inquiries about Ronon Dex, but the base is still pretty empty," Lorne said. "We might have more luck tomorrow."

The others nodded. When they weren't out searching, they were huddled in their rooms, discussing what they knew over and over and over again. The military connection had popped up quite clearly at the beginning, and for that reason all further inquiries had been made as quietly as possible. The risk that the people they were questioning were the ones responsible for Sheppard's disappearance was too high.

"We've finally set up a meeting with Commander Kell tomorrow morning," Elizabeth said.

"Who's that?" Rodney asked, but he didn't really care. Just another name in another uniform—probably some dignitary or someone who thought he was high status, and he'd have to tip-toe around him so as not to cause a diplomatic incident.

"From what I understand, he was head of infantry forces here at the base. With Tremek in the hospital, he's been temporarily promoted, although he still goes by his 'Commander' rank."

So definitely someone who thought of himself as high-status. Great.

"And why do we have to meet him?"

The others ignored him, half listening to the discussing, but Elizabeth pursed her lips and glared at him. Rodney forced the scowl off his face—he knew firsthand not to push Elizabeth over the edge of exasperation. Now was not the time.

"He was leading the investigation into both Tremek's accident and the altercation on base until the President was attacked. He's now technically only overseeing the President's security, but he is willing to meet with us for a few minutes."

Rodney had half-forgotten the attack on the President. He'd thought of it only in terms of resources being diverted away from the search for Sheppard, but now he added it to the growing list of violent incidents: Sheppard's (which he was assuming had been violent), Tremek's, Carson's, Teyla's, Nurif's. All somehow connected to the Satedan military and the Atlanteans.

Ronon Dex was the unknown in the equation. Was he friend or foe? Teyla and Lorne were the only ones who knew who he was, although Carson mentioned having vague memories of seeing him return through the gate after the disastrous joint mission. He was also military.

Lorne answered a knock at the door, and a minute later the room was filled with the smell of hot stew. Rodney's stomach grumbled in response, eliciting a half-smile from both Teyla and Elizabeth. He might have snapped at them had that not been the first hint of a smile he'd seen from either woman in the last two days.

The group moved from the living room to the long table now filled with bowls of food. The Satedan government was at least keeping them well-fed. Rodney grabbed two rolls and sighed with contentment when he felt the warm crust. Fresh out of the oven.

They dug in quietly, the only sound that of spoons scraping across bowls. Rodney was suddenly filled with another memory of a few days earlier, all of them—Sheppard included—eating warm stew and recounting what they'd seen that day. Carson had shown up with freshly baked cookies, and they'd laughed as they'd talked. Everything that day had been the pride and glory of Sateda—the palace, the capital city, the staircase, the art, the military base, the science labs.

What was it Elizabeth had said? Something about their warlike culture. Maybe it had been Teyla who'd brought it up, but they'd all encountered it. The talk of the town was the big fight against the Wraith. The whole alliance had been geared around the war and how Atlantis could help them fight.

He froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. Was there a connection there? The piece of meat tottering on the edge of his spoon finally tipped back into the bowl with a splash but he ignored it. The alliance had dragged on for days because of their reluctance to throw Atlantis behind another direct confrontation with the Wraith. Sheppard was supposed to have had the final say on how much military help they provided to Sateda, and he hadn't hidden the fact that he was against the war.

Had they gotten rid of him because of that? Were they hoping he'd be replaced with someone a little more pro-war? It seemed to be a huge risk, but…

"Rodney!"

He jerked at the sound of his name being yelled by everyone at once. They were looking at him, waiting for him to respond.

"What?" he snapped. He scooped the piece of meat that had fallen off his spoon and shoved it into his mouth.

"Are you alright?" Carson asked, and he looked both worried for Rodney and like he should still be in the hospital. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. "We called your name at least three times."

"Oh, sorry. Thinking," Rodney answered, helping himself to another roll. His mind was racing again with possible connections, trying to fit in the Sateda plan to fight the Wraith with everything else. Before anyone could prompt him again, he launched into it, laying out the connections and possible theories for everyone else. By the time he was done, the food had been finished off and the empty bowls and plates cleared from the table.

His ideas were half-ideas, and the connections held up with more speculation than he liked, but there was something there. Rodney could feel it. This always happened when he was working on some particularly perplexing problem in his lab. He could feel an answer and know it was just out of reach, even though none of the evidence at hand would actually support his conclusions.

They discussed it well into the night, going around and around in circles trying to replace some of the speculation with hard facts. It was an impossible task, but no one seemed willing to give it up right away. The only positive—in Rodney's mind—was the half-formed plan to secretly bring in a jumper that they were able to hash out.

Carson called it a night first, still recovering from his attack and looking more tired than all of them. He had a long day at the hospital in front of him since Tremek's life still hung in the balance. By the time the others finally decided to turn in for the night, Rodney's eyes were burning with exhaustion. They were not a single step closer to figuring out what had happened to Sheppard.

* * *

"This will not do," Sal Nurif exploded, wadding up the paper and throwing it back at his assistant. "How can I stand up in front of my people and rally them to war when the military is falling apart around us?"

"Sir, I hardly think the military is falling apart—"

"Oh, really? One high ranking officer is dead by suicide, one is barely holding onto life and may not ever recover, rumors and reports of intruders attacking people _on the base itself_, no sign whatsoever of the missing off-worlder, and now rumors that he might possibly be dead. The capital is in total chaos with this damn holiday."

"Sir—"

"We are in no position whatsoever to start fighting the Wraith. Does no one see this?"

Sal was in full rant mode, and he grabbed his glass of water and pitched it against the wall. Water splashed every which way, but the glass didn't actually break. It dropped to the carpeted floor with a thud. Sal had been on edge since the failed attack against him, and the jitteriness of knowing someone could try to kill him again at any moment was almost too much to bear.

His aide flinched and stepped away from him. Sal was not known for losing his temper, but his nerves were completely fried. He'd hardly slept the last two nights, and the fatigue was working its way into his every thought and action. He leaned over his desk and forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Write a new speech," he commanded, looking up at his aide a moment later. "We need to start exercising some caution here in regards to the war against the Wraith. I know the military is all gung-ho about it, but we need to make sure we're ready and organized. We need this alliance with Canada or wherever they're from to be on solid ground before—"

Sal was looking at his aide and so had a perfect view of what happened next. The aide stared back looking uneasy about Sal's recent outburst and disgruntled at having to go back and rewrite the speech only a few hours before the President's public conference. The window behind him grew bright, and then a piercing, blinding flash exploded into the room, hurling shards of glass throughout the entire office.

The noise came afterwards—a rumbling crack that shook the floor. By this time, Sal was on the floor, lying on his side and staring at a carpet covered in glass and dirt and bits of plaster and wood. Dust swirled in the air on the cool current that suddenly rushed over him.

He blinked. He could hear muffled shouting and banging, but he was too stunned at the gaping hole in the wall where his window overlooking the city had been. He could see the city spreading out in front of him, a flock of birds weaving south against a canvas of blue.

The pain hit next, and his breath stuttered in his throat. His skin was on fire. He looked down at his arms and saw they were covered with tiny cuts. Drops of blood oozed out and dripped into the carpet. Such a beautiful carpet. It had always been his favorite. He heard a moaning sound and looked around for the source until he realized it was coming from him. Blood dripped down his face from more cuts.

Was he badly injured? Was he going to die? He was going to die. Someone was trying to kill him. He had the highest ratings of any President in history, and someone was going to assassinate him. The crashing sounds at the door got louder, and three soldiers finally burst through, shattering the wood. Sal almost laughed at their looks of shock as they surveyed the room, then remembered the burning cuts all over his face and hands, and he whimpered instead.

He suddenly remembered his aide, standing between him and the missile-like shards of glass. The guards were in the room, swarming over them and yelling for help. Someone ran to the window. Someone else knelt next to him. Sal craned his head looking for the aide. He was a good aide. Always wrote such electrifying speeches. It was what the people had come to expect.

The aide lay a few feet from him, flat on his stomach but with his head turned toward Sal. The eyes were dull, washed of color. Had he ever noticed what color the man's eyes were before? He didn't blink, didn't move, didn't breathe. Shards of glass poked out of his back—one large one covered in bright blood and embedded near his heart.

Sal gagged at the sight of the dead man and closed his eyes. Kell. Where was Kell? He was supposed to stop this kind of thing from happening. Hot tears leaked out of his eyes as more people spilled into the room, rolling him onto his back and wiping at the blood on his skin. They spoke—panicked, calm, reassuring, frantic—all melting into one rush of sound that spun around him in the breeze fluttering through the hole in the wall.

* * *

Commander Kell leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the palace window and stared out over the city. It was mid-morning, and sunlight pelted the roofs of the city through a growing cloud bank. It looked like another storm was on its way, but he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Things were finally starting to settle down, although he still felt like he was straddling the edge of the warrior's sword. His plans could so easily crumble around him. The last few days had felt more like a month. He rubbed his eyes and turned away from the window. He didn't have time to dwell on what had gone wrong. He had to focus.

President Nurif had survived the blast from earlier that morning, but the man was sufficiently terrified that it didn't matter. It might even work out for the best. Nurif had already made Kell swear he would do whatever it took to keep him safe and had readily agreed to go into hiding. Kell could keep him out of sight from all but a few trusted men and control the messages he sent to the public. He could make Nurif say anything he wanted.

The blast had happened just in time. Kell had heard the President was preparing a public speech to call off the war against the Wraith, or at least delay it. The war was central to Kell's plans—he needed the confusion it would cause as he positioned himself at the top.

A knock on the door of the room he had appropriated as his office had him turning around, and a young soldier in a crisp uniform popped his head into the room. "Sir, we've received a message from a group calling themselves Sateda Unity. They're claiming responsibility for this morning's bombing."

"Sateda Unity?" he asked, feigning surprise.

"Yes, sir. They're one of those small isolationist groups, always raging about how Sateda shouldn't get involved with other worlds."

The young soldier's opinion of those groups was clear, and Kell almost smiled. Most people didn't trust the isolationist groups. "Any idea where they're headquartered?"

The soldier finally stepped into the room and handed Kell his report. "No, sir. Most of those groups move around too much so no one can find them."

He was thrumming with excitement. Kell could literally see it dancing in the man's eyes. "What is it, soldier?" he snapped.

"The message they sent, sir. They're claiming responsibility for both bombing attacks against the President and the death of the off-worlder, Sheppard."

Kell knew what the message said. He'd sent it himself. He nodded vigorously, though, matching the soldier's excitement and spat out orders to pursue the "new" lead. The soldier scurried off, leaving Kell alone once again.

His shoulders were knotted with tension. Planting the message had been relatively easy, and if the soldier's reaction was anything to go by, most people would jump on the explanation that one of the small, disgruntled isolationist groups had been behind it all from the beginning. He just hoped the off-worlders would likewise be convinced.

He'd been watching them from a distance over the last two days and was almost convinced they had no idea what Sheppard had been doing on the base the evening of his disappearance. He cleared the mess off his desk—papers stolen from Tremek's office—and shoved them into a closet, out of sight. The woman, Teyla, had been in the office when one of his men had gone in to look for evidence of the general's investigation into Langus's death. The fool had attacked her, even though he could have legitimately explained he was involved in the accident investigation.

Nevertheless, they'd gotten the papers out of the office before the off-worlders had had much of a chance to look at them—not that there'd been anything incriminating in the piles of reports. Tremek had apparently not written anything down. Tremek himself was still alive and heavily guarded, and even Kell couldn't get anyone close to kill him now, but all reports indicated that the man would likely never regain consciousness. Even if he did, he probably wouldn't remember much of the day of the accident.

So that left Sheppard's whereabouts—if he was even still alive—and his unknown associate. They'd made no progress in this area, but if Sheppard was in hiding, he hadn't raised his head from wherever he was cowering. His teammates were relentless in their search, so with any luck, they would do the hard work for him. All Kell needed was a nice little reunion, then a final, parting bomb blast.

There was another knock at his door, and he stood up, tugging on the ends of his uniform to straighten out the jacket. One of his men opened the door and nodded at him, then ushered in the off-worlders. Kell plastered on a smile, trying to look both grave and optimistic as he greeted them.

They'd been trying to get a meeting with him for two days now. He'd managed to brush them off until now, but he knew he'd have to meet with them eventually. The leader—an attractive woman with dark hair—had been particularly adamant. Kell licked his lips, signaling them to take a seat on the sofas in the corner of the room brought in for this specific meeting. Kell did not entertain guests.

"Thank you for meeting with us," the dark-haired woman started. Doctor Weir.

"I apologize for the delay. The last couple of days have been a little chaotic," Kell answered. He watched their faces as he spoke and recognized a deep distrust. He would have to tread extremely carefully. They were already suspicious of everyone and everything.

"We heard the bomb this morning," Weir said. "Is the President alright? There seems to be some speculation on whether or not he survived."

Kell nodded. "Oh, he's alive. Miraculously, he only suffered a few cuts from flying glass. He's in seclusion right now, under heavy guard until we apprehend those responsible."

"Any ideas on who that may be?" the man next to Weir asked. His face was mottled with bruises. Lorne—that sounded right.

"Actually, yes," Kell answered and noted how all of them straightened up in their seats. They were desperate for information. He launched into the explanation he'd prepared, telling them about the isolationist group that had claimed responsibility for both bombings and Sheppard's death. In turn, the off-worlders bombarded him with questions, and he concluded that his assessment of their desperation was correct.

Between their questions, Kell asked his own as he tried to gauge how close to the truth they actually were in their own search. They seemed to be holding something back, but Kell couldn't pinpoint it. The woman who'd been attacked in Tremek's office—an Athosian—looked both angry and hopeless. The other two men—scientists—looked exhausted and anxious and not sure who to believe.

His mind wandered as they talked, and he had to force himself to pay attention. His last fears that the off-worlders might know something of his plans dissipated with their continuous questions, and Kell felt himself relax. He could see the lingering suspicion in their eyes, but they had no other information to go on. They would do exactly what he wanted based on the information he provided them. It was almost too simple.

And to think he'd almost given his plans up for lost. He still wanted his family off Sateda just in case, but future success was looming as a greater and greater possibility. His wife had put up a fuss that morning when he'd told her to start packing, but he knew she'd obey him in the end. His family would soon be safe, and he'd be in control of all of Sateda.

TBC…


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15_

The dangerous man stepped forward, out of the shadows. He laughed, his white teeth floating in the distorted face, and he raised his arm.

_Weapon. Gun. Run, _a voice screamed inside the injured man's mind, but he found himself frozen, trapped by the laughter emanating cruelly from the teeth. He saw the flash of light, felt the impact as he staggered backward and rolled down a steep, rocky embankment. He opened his eyes in time to see the face of the man with dark, spiky hair and hazel eyes in the water. Blood gushed thick from a gaping wound on his head, and he could still hear the laughter from the shadows all around him.

He gasped, his eyes flying open, and the shadows were chased away by the flickering light of a gas lamp. The small room came into focus, and he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, concentrating on the wood beams.

He remembered this room. He turned his head to the side and saw the window, closed now, but the curtains were opened enough for him to see a large yellow moon hanging low in the night sky.

His head ached, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He remembered the man in the shadows and the bloody face in the water, but the rest of the dream slipped away into a dark vacuum. He tried to lift his arms, but one did not move and the other felt like lead, heavy in extreme exhaustion.

_Just breathe, _he told himself. The room was quiet; the whole house was quiet. He stared up at the ceiling trying to take stock of his injuries as his memories struggled to reconnect. Something was seriously wrong with his head—of that he was sure.

He raised his head enough to look down at himself. His right arm was wrapped tightly in heavy bandages and rested over his stomach, aching abominably. His chest and stomach burned, and he remembered the black bruises bleeding up pale skin. He took a deep breath, felt the twinge of ribs expanding too far, and added bruised or cracked ribs to his growing list of injuries.

His left leg was propped up but under a quilted blanket. A line of burning pain ran from just under his knee to mid-thigh, and he wondered what had happened. He had no memory of anything happening to his leg—not even in the dreams. He dragged his left hand under the blanket to his leg, intent on examining the injury for himself, and sat up as much as he dared. He grimaced at the hot, swollen bruise he could feel near the knee.

He groaned and collapsed back to the bed. Pain was beginning to throb in every nerve and he took a couple of deep breaths. He realized he was also naked under the blanket, and his mind struggled to remember how he'd gotten here. Someone had been trying to kill him. Was the man still here? Was he close? Who had undressed him and cared for his injuries?

He could feel his heart beating rapidly. "Don't do this. Don't panic. Hold it together," he muttered. Sweat broke out over his face. His heart was racing now, his breaths coming in quick, jerking, painful gasps, but he ignored it all. He licked dry lips, twisting against the panic. He was losing the battle.

He looked around the room, hoping something would jar his memory. As his eyes came to rest in the corner of the room, the body of a man sitting in the chair came into focus, his face hidden by shadows.

"No!" he screamed, and his body jerked upright in panic.

Pain exploded in his head, making him gag. He squeezed his eyes shut, and did not see the body in the chair jerk awake in surprise. Heavy footsteps against a wood floor pounded next to him—_too close, too loud—_and he felt a large hand on his shoulder. Another arm snaked its way under his back, lifting him up as he gave in to the nausea.

After what felt like an eternity of puking, his stomach finally settled. He opened his eyes to find himself leaning against a large solid body. He shuddered in exhaustion, gulping in painful breaths. Arms around his back kept him upright.

He jerked at a bright flash of light, and then a young woman stepped through the door from a much brighter hallway. He knew that woman. He'd seen her before. Steel. Iron. Kindness.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I don't know. I was asleep and he suddenly screamed. He was sick," the voice behind him replied.

"I can see that," the woman answered with a slight grimace. She stepped forward and knelt next to the bed, gripping his hand. She brought her other hand up to his face.

He watched her, feeling his heart go into double time.

"He's shaking," the voice behind said.

He flinched at the sound of the voice, but he knew it. The image of a man with dreadlocks, panicking, flashed through his mind. He saw trees, Wraith, the dreadlocked man shooting at the flashes of pale skin darting behind them. His back was on fire.

"He's been through a lot." The woman lifted his chin so that she could look directly into his eyes. "We're only trying to help you, John. We mean you no harm. Are you in pain?"

"Pain," he whispered back.

The woman frowned, looking up in confusion at the dreadlocked man behind him. They spoke again, but the sounds swirled incomprehensibly around his head. He felt a wet cloth on his face wiping away the vomit that had dribbled down his chin and onto his chest, and then the man behind him lowered him back down onto the bed.

"What h-hap'ned?" he groaned. The dreadlocked man stared at him for a moment but made no reply. The blanket covering him was stripped away, and he started in surprise, but before he could register what was happening, another blanket was draped over him. The woman hummed softly as she tucked in the edges. Within seconds, he was ensconced in a clean blanket, the smell of vomit wafting out of the now open window. He felt an icy sting race up his arm, spreading cool numbness.

_The good stuff…_He closed his eyes as the room slowly settled down around him, but a hand behind his head lifting it up jolted him from the doze he'd started to slip into. The woman stood before him, holding a spoon.

"Here you go—some ice," she said.

He blinked in exhaustion, fighting against his fading awareness. Something had happened to him—a man in shadows, trying to kill him. He had to get home, he had to find someplace safe.

He whimpered at the confusion. The woman pressed the edge of the spoon to his mouth, tilting it slowly so that the small piece of ice slid onto his tongue without choking him. He sucked at the bit of moisture cutting into the dryness. He wanted to go home. The woman held his lips open again with one hand and gave him another ice chip, and he had no choice but to swallow.

He felt a soft haze settle over him. He was warm and comfortable and dog-tired, and his mouth wasn't quite so dry and foul-tasting. Stabs of pain, mostly in his head, began to ease as the familiar numbness spread over him. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be panicking, but his energy was gone. Whatever was going on, he could not fight it.

He relaxed into the bed. The door to the room was shut, blocking out the light from the hallway. There was just enough moonlight filtering in through the open window for him to see the woman settle into the chair in the corner. There'd been a man there before, hadn't there? She hummed so softly he could barely hear her, but the tune followed him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

_John._

The name floated through his mind, as clear as if someone had spoken it. John woke up, the sound of his name on his lips.

"John," he whispered. That was his name. He was sure that was his name.

Sun streamed in through the window. He looked toward the chair in the corner, but it was empty. He felt grimy and sweaty, and achy from lying in bed, but the agonizing pain from the last few times he'd ventured into consciousness had diminished. It wasn't gone completely, but it didn't take his breath away. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious in this room.

"John," he repeated. His voice filled the small room. He strained his ears, listening for any sound from the rest of the house, but all was quiet.

He dozed. The next time he woke up, the shadows had shifted and the light coming in from the window wasn't quite so bright. John turned his head toward it, staring out into a blue, cloudless sky.

He shifted in the bed, wincing when his skin pulled against the cuts on his chest and leg. His right arm was still tightly bound, leaving him only his left arm with which to push himself up.

He managed to sit up halfway before pain lanced through his head and chest. The room swam sickeningly before his eyes, twisting in time with his stomach. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply until the room settled back into place. The dizziness, if anything, grew worse, and he gripped the blanket at the sensation of the bed moving beneath him.

Light footsteps at the door signaled someone was home and coming into the room, but John could do nothing to prepare for them. He swallowed in desperation at the bile working its way up the back of his throat, moaning softly with the effort.

The footsteps froze then quickened their pace until whoever had entered the room was right next to him. John felt a cool hand on his bare shoulder and the back of his head. They pressed him back toward the bed, supporting him as he slowly eased back onto the pillow.

It took a few more minutes for the dizziness to subside. His head had flared into a pounding headache in the process, and he lifted a shaky hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The mattress dipped, and John opened his eyes to see the young woman looking down at him in concern. She held a mug in her hand and pointed at it. John reached up for it, but the woman lifted his head and held the cup for him as he drank the water. By the time he was done, he was exhausted, and he sagged back into the pillow.

The woman set the mug to the side, pulling the blanket down to his waist, and John suddenly remembered he wasn't wearing anything. He flushed in embarrassment. He pulled at the blanket with his one free hand, trying to bring it back up to his neck.

"Ssshhh," she soothed. She patted his arm and pulled the covers back down, then set to work on changing the bandages wrapped around his chest. It was a painful, drawn-out process, and by the time she was finished, John could feel beads of sweat dripping off his face and into his hair.

"You were…here before," he said, breaking the silence.

The woman looked up at the sound of his voice, smiled, and nodded. "You remember me?"

He nodded, then wished he hadn't. His head felt like it was going to explode. He hissed at the warm cloth she used to clean his chest and arms, closing his eyes when she moved to his legs.

"My name is Melena," she said as she worked. She pulled the covers back over his legs, and even though she'd been discreet, John's face still burned with humiliation. "You must be feeling a little bit better to be that embarrassed."

She said it as a statement, but she looked at him as if waiting for some kind of confirmation on his part.

"A little," he croaked out. His throat felt dry from disuse.

The woman—Melena—pulled the blanket back up to his neck, then sat quietly on the bed next to him. She looked like she wanted to say something, but stared out the window instead.

"What happened to me?" John asked.

"What do you remember?"

Bits of his dream flashed through his mind, and he frowned at the images. They made no sense to him now. He thought of the man with dreadlocks instead, running through the woods and firing at the Wraith. "There was a mission," he started, and the words slowly came with more ease. "We were pinned down by the Wraith until another team came. They got us out of there. My back—"

"I saw—Ronon said you were hit with shrapnel."

"Ronon," he repeated. "The man with dreadlocks?"

"That's the one," she said with a smile, and her eyes lit up. John saw compassion and icy strength all at once. "Do you remember anything after that?"

"Um…" He closed his eyes, concentrating, but the headache was making it too difficult. He gave up with a sigh and shook his head.

"Do you remember your name?"

"John."

"Do you remember where you're from?"

Home. He thought of glass spires and a blue ocean glittering in the sun. Home—he wasn't supposed to tell anyone. Home was the ultimate secret. Home was…was…

"Can't remember…think I see images of it, but…"

"It's okay. I'm sure it will come back to you. You're much stronger than I expected."

John didn't know what to make of that, but before he could ask, he heard another set of footsteps walking heavily toward the room. He tensed as the door flew open and his left arm flailed. Melena grabbed his flailing hand too easily and set it down on his chest. John let out a shuddering breath as the dreadlocked man walked in holding a tray of food.

Ronon. He knew Ronon. There'd been a mission. They'd gotten trapped with Wraith all over the place, and Ronon had come to their rescue. One of the Wraith had exploded, spraying shrapnel into John's back, but Ronon had come for him. Ronon had gotten him out of there.

He relaxed and watched the man set the tray on the desk.

"Soup's done," he said, his voice gruff.

John was tired again but the woman had called Ronon over and directed him to lift John up. He was surprisingly gentle. Melena piled pillows behind him, and then Ronon set him back down again, leaving John propped up.

The change in position made his head, chest, arm, and leg throb and set off wave after wave of dizziness. It had only taken seconds, but by the time he was leaning back against the pillows, he was breathing hard, desperately fighting the nausea roiling in his stomach. He could feel drops of sweat sliding down his face as his headache intensified, and he pressed his left hand into his gut in anguish.

For the first time since waking up, he noticed that his head felt constricted. He closed his eyes, willing himself to pass out, but a damp cloth on his face jerked him back to full wakefulness. He blinked up at Melena as she wiped the sheen of perspiration off his face and neck.

She continued until John seemed to get the nausea and dizziness under control. When he licked dry lips, she set the cloth down and pressed the mug of water to his mouth. John sipped slowly, afraid to set off his stomach, but the little bit of moisture settled quickly.

Melena slid his bandaged arm into a sling while Ronon moved back to the desk, returning with the bowl of soup in his hands.

"Can you eat? You really need to eat," Melena said, taking the soup out of Ronon's hands and holding it under John's nose.

John sniffed at it. It was yellow and thin, but it smelled good. He wasn't hungry, but the pummeling pain he remembered in his stomach had abated. Even the nausea was slowly ebbing away. He stared at the soup with some trepidation, wondering if his gut would stay settled, but it really did smell good.

Melena smiled at the slight nod he eventually gave. She picked the spoon up and let it hover in front of his mouth for a few seconds, nodding in encouragement. Ronon had moved to the side of the room, out of sight.

John finally relented, swallowing the bit of broth on the spoon. It was warm and mild tasting, and he smiled in relief when his stomach didn't immediately reject the food. A half dozen spoonfuls later, he was feeling overly full, and the brief excitement of the afternoon had worn him out. He was barely keeping his eyes open when Melena seemed to realize he was done.

"You did well," she whispered. "We'll try some more a little bit later."

John felt her squeezing his arm, and then the blankets were being pulled up and tucked in around his neck. By the time Melena and Ronon left the room, he was sound asleep.

* * *

John woke up abruptly and blinked at the dark ceiling. The dying embers at his feet glowed brightly in the darkness but gave no light, yet he knew immediately where he was. He'd slept without nightmares. He turned his head, cognizant of the pain waiting to pounce on him, and looked at the chair in the corner.

It was empty. He was alone in the room. He wondered where the two people were—Melena and Ronon—but then he heard footsteps in the hall. Light spilled from under his closed door, and shadows moved across the space as the voices drew near and paused on the other side.

"I know you didn't want to work for Kell, but it was the only way. We gave up almost everything we owned to get you that position and now…"

"Ronon, you did what you had to do. If you'd let John die, I would never have forgiven you."

"Melena, they're going to fight. They think we can stand up against the Wraith and win, but we can't. I've seen the Wraith fight—there are too many of them. I don't trust Kell for a second, but he was your best chance of surviving. Of getting off this planet and finding somewhere safe."

John blinked. Kell. The name sounded familiar and he thought of a long row of tents fading into dusk. He'd been walking down that row of tents. He'd been caught. Something bad had happened. Something very bad and very dangerous.

"And I was just supposed to go without you? What kind of life would that have been for me?" Melena's voice broke through his thoughts. Neither one of them trusted Kell, but they were connected to him somehow. John shivered, but from cold or a sense of being in danger, he did not know. His head ached continuously, bringing tears of pain to his eyes.

"I can't stand the thought of losing you, Melena."

"Nor I, you. Ronon, this is Kell we're talking about. How safe do you really think I would have been with him?"

The footsteps moved, their shadows disappearing from under the door. They were still talking but John couldn't hear them anymore. They'd sounded despondent—too far in over their heads and uncertain about what to do next. John shivered again and slid deeper into the blankets.

Kell. The name reeked of danger and cruelty—to all of them.

TBC…


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16_

Ronon kneed open the door, the logs of firewood balanced precariously in his arms. The day had dawned bright but chilly, and he knew the coming nights would be cold with the impending arrival of winter. He slid through the door then hooked the side of it with his leg to shut it behind him. He cringed as it slammed shut.

The house had been dusty and empty when they'd arrived, but it hadn't taken long for that lived-in feel to return. He loved this old house. It carried so many memories—some not so great, but most of them happy and full of contentment and laughter. He really shouldn't have waited so long to return.

He moved through the kitchen area, negotiating the hallways without actually seeing where he was going over the wood in his arms. He could probably walk this house blindfolded, but Melena would not be happy with him if he tripped and broke an arm or twisted his already sore ankle.

"Need any help?"

"Nah, I got it," he answered as he entered the living room. He squatted down near the fireplace and dropped his load, shaking his arms out afterward. His ordeal of a few days earlier had left him a motley of stiffening bruises, but nothing that wouldn't clear in another day or two.

He piled the wood in neat stacks next to the hearth, then turned around to catch Melena watching him over the book she was reading. A mug of hot tea steamed from her hand.

"What are you looking at?" Ronon griped, feigning irritation.

Melena smiled wider. "I was just thinking this country life seems to suit you well. I can't believe you've never brought me here before."

"Yeah, well…" he trailed off, not really wanting to go any further. He glanced up and saw understanding bloom in Melena's eyes. This house was connected to his family, and family was a touchy subject. She knew not to push Ronon into talking about it when he didn't want to, and for that, Ronon loved her all the more.

"I think the President's speech is about to begin," Melena said, setting her book down and changing the subject.

Ronon nodded, crossing the room and flipping the radio on. In all the excitement of the last few days, he'd almost forgotten the President's speech. The radio sputtered and squealed as he turned the dials, looking for the strongest reception. All at once, a grave disembodied voice filled the room.

"—shocking news from the capital this morning. Another bomb has gone off inside the palace compound walls, making that the second one in three days. There has been no official word yet from the President himself but we anticipate an official announcement from the President or his staff sometime within the next few minutes. Needless to say, the President's speech has been delayed."

Ronon stared in shock at the small box on the shelf, feeling the pit of his stomach drop out from under him. He turned to Melena but she too was staring wide-eyed at the radio. The announcer began to repeat the news of the bombing as he waited for the imminent official announcement. They listened to it twice more before Ronon finally turned it down.

"Two bombings?"

"Ronon, who would want to bomb the President? I mean, why…what is happening?"

"I don't know, Melena. We were children the last time anyone made any kind of attempt on a President's life."

The radio clicked and a new voice came through. Ronon turned it up quickly, waving at Melena to listen. She needed no prodding and was soon standing by his side, her head cocked as she concentrated.

He had expected Nurif's booming voice to bounce out of the speakers, full of his usual optimism and encouragement and unshakeable belief that Sateda could stand up to whatever enemy it had to face. Instead, another voice—this one gravelly and monotonous—peeled from the speakers. Ronon frowned, blinking in recognition when he finally connected the voice to a name.

"Madal," he said.

"What?" Melena whispered. She had moved closer to him, and was holding onto his arm with both of her hands.

"It's Chieftain Madal, head of all of Sateda's military."

He spoke briefly, assuring that the President was safe and that the bombings were being investigated. He even implied that the explosions hadn't actually been malicious, that they were caused by some faulty electrical work in the palace. Ronon didn't believe that for a second—he had been the top recruit of his class, and he knew a spin story when he heard one.

Chieftain Madal's speech was short and to the point. The radio blurped out a few seconds of dead air before the news announcer came back on, reiterating the chieftain's words. The entire day would be spent analyzing and reanalyzing every word and every inflection, but Ronon had heard what he needed. The government was under siege.

It sounded dramatic, even as the thought crossed his mind, but he couldn't shake the feeling. The President was in seclusion for his own protection, meaning only a handful of people would have access to him. The Chieftain of the military was now speaking for the President, and despite the fact that Nurif had in recent weeks started to urge caution regarding the decision to fight the Wraith, Madal was a military man through and through. He was behind the war against the Wraith absolutely.

"—alliance with Canada is still tenuously in hand, although the recent disappearance of one of the delegation has disrupted the process severely. It is the government's continuing hope that…"

"Melena," Ronon hissed, looking around for her. She had left the living room once the news announcer had begun his analysis, leaving Ronon standing in front of the radio by himself, but now she ran in, almost panicked. Ronon waved her over and signaled her to keep quiet.

"…ongoing investigation into the disappearance of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. He was last reported being seen four days ago in Central Hospital where he was recovering from wounds sustained while participating in a mission with one of our elite squadrons. Colonel Sheppard was reported to have been integral in the destruction of a Wraith Cruiser on that particular mission. The search continues, although anyone who may have any information on his whereabouts is urged to contact either the city police or a member of the military."

There was a pause and a slight rustle of paper over the airwaves. Ronon looked at Melena, wanting to feel relieved but not quite willing to let go of the anxiety at being found. He saw the same look in her eyes. The radio announcer didn't know where Sheppard was, but that didn't mean Kell didn't know. They had to remain vigilant.

"Breaking news here, fellow Satedans," the news announcer picked up again, and Ronon could hear the excitement in his voice. He tensed and couldn't help the glance out the front living room window. The driveway weaved along the grass and disappeared into quiet and seemingly empty trees.

"We have just received word that a group calling itself Sateda Unity has claimed responsibility for both bombing attacks against President Nurif. We are still gathering information on this group, but they appear to be one of the isolationist groups urging all Satedans to stop using the Ring of the Ancestors and to cut off all off-world ties. Apparently, the alliance with Canada and the popular decision to fight the Wraith has pushed this group over the edge of sanity."

Ronon shook his head. Everything had changed. Last week all he'd been worried about was finding a night where both he and Melena were free so they could go out together. This week there were bombings, assassination attempts, Kell ordering the execution of an off-worlder, alliances coming together and breaking up. This was all wrong—this was not the state Sateda needed to be in when they confronted the Wraith.

The radio carried the sound of more paper rustling, and the surprised exclamation by the news announcer. Dread twisted in Ronon's stomach at what might be coming next. A few seconds later, the announcer was reading yet another piece of breaking news.

"Folks, we have just learned firsthand a clue to the whereabouts of John Sheppard," the announcer cried, his voice an octave higher than it had been a few minutes earlier. The onslaught of breaking news sounded like it might actually break the newscaster. Ronon mused that he probably hadn't had his hands on a story like this in his entire career.

"Ronon," Melena whispered, her voice taut with fear. Her fingers were once again digging into his arm. He glanced out the window again and saw nothing had changed, then wrapped his arm around Melena waist. She was trembling slightly, and he pulled her in close to him.

"We've just received an official announcement from Infantry Division Commander Kell that there was an altercation on base the night John Sheppard disappeared."

Ronon froze, his heart crawling up into his throat. Melena reached toward the radio, but he wasn't sure if she intended to turn the volume up or turn the sound off completely. He couldn't decide which would be the better option. Instead, her hand hung in mid-air for a second before dropping back to her side.

"I quote directly from Commander Kell himself, from a statement just sent to our news station a minute ago: 'Evidence exists that the isolationist group Sateda Unity was planning to set off explosive devices on the base and target key combat and technology sections in an attempt to break up the new alliance and stall any future action against the Wraith. In a message received by the leadership of that group, they have claimed responsibility for the shooting death of John Sheppard, who caught them in the act and was able to stop them from planting any bombs.'" The announcer paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "That, my friends, was a direct quote from Commander Kell. From what we understand, Colonel Sheppard's body has yet to be recovered, but surely it is just a matter of time now that those responsible have been identified. If you are just joining us—"

Ronon flipped the radio off and spun away from Melena. He could feel the anger quivering in his muscles and he resisted the urge to punch the wall. He howled at the ceiling instead, swinging his fist into the air.

"I thought you said Kell had ordered John's death," Melena asked. Ronon turned to look at her, seeing the confusion and fear in her face but too angry to respond to it. "If that's true, then John Sheppard—"

"It's true, Melena. It's true. I am going to kill that man."

He would have said more—a lot more—but at that moment, there was a loud thump from the hallway. Ronon and Melena both froze for a second before spinning around and running toward the front entryway. Melena would have continued running, but Ronon grabbed her and signaled her to be quiet and to stay behind him. Wishing he had a weapon—or at least a knife—on him, he peered around the door.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sheppard lay in a heap of tangled limbs. He looked as if he'd collapsed once he'd reached the bottom. Ronon stepped forward, then stopped, not sure what he was supposed to do. Sheppard pushed up from the floor and his arms shook with the effort. He was breathing heavily, his eyes bright with pain and his face a ghostly white. A sheen of perspiration glinted in the sunlight coming through the window.

Melena poked her head out from behind Ronon and cried out in surprise. Before he could stop her, she ran toward the injured man. Sheppard jerked at her approach, turning away from her and attempting to push himself back up to his feet. He was wearing the brown hospital garb Melena had washed and left on the dresser in Sheppard's room, but his feet were bare.

"Melena, be careful," Ronon called out behind her. Sheppard had the look of desperation on him, and weak as he was, he was still a warrior.

"John," Melena called out softly, holding out her hands but not getting any closer than a few feet from him.

Sheppard jerked again, and Ronon wondered how aware he was of his surroundings, and how much he had heard of the radio broadcast and his and Melena's comments afterward. Melena took another step forward calling out to him again, and Ronon saw Sheppard tense. Before he could do anything, the off-worlder—injured and supposedly bedridden—pounced, throwing his body at Melena.

He stumbled as he did so, and Melena caught him instinctively. Before she could do anything else, Sheppard shifted and lunged for the front door. Ronon had managed to take two steps before Sheppard flung the door open and staggered across the porch.

"John!" Melena yelled and darted out the door behind him.

Ronon was a few steps behind her, images of Kell's men hiding in the trees around them waiting for their moment to attack flittering through his mind and causing his stomach to burn with apprehension. He scanned the yard quickly as he stepped out onto the porch, his military instincts taking over immediately. A soft winter wind was blowing through the tops of the trees, rustling the leaves and masking any sound approaching soldiers might make. He stared at the tree line, squinting into the dark shadows for any movement.

"Ronon!" Melena called again.

Satisfied that no one was about to come bursting through the yard toward them, he looked down at her. Sheppard had collapsed again a few feet away from the porch, his brief burst of strength quickly expended. He lay face down in the grass, shuddering perceptibly. Melena had him by the shoulders and was attempting to turn him over. She looked up at Ronon again, pleading for his help, but there was a noticeable shift in her expression—she was a doctor again, attending a desperately ill patient.

"Help me turn him over," she said as Ronon kneeled on the ground next to them. "Hold his head steady."

Ronon did so. He could feel Sheppard shaking underneath his grasp, but his flare of energy was gone. He writhed at their touch but could do nothing to stop them from manhandling him onto his back. Ronon looked away, knowing he would hate feeling so helpless in that same situation.

"It's okay, John. We're friends—we're just trying to help," Melena soothed as she ran her hands over his head and chest, looking for new injuries or old injuries made worse. "He's warm," she whispered to Ronon. "His fever's going up."

Ronon finally forced himself to look back at the man. Sheppard's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at the sky in a daze for a second before focusing on the two people looking down at him. His face had taken on a grayish hue, and sweat dripped into his hair and the bandage around his head. As he focused on Ronon, his eyes flew open in surprise and he jerked beneath their grasp.

"No…" he whispered.

"Ssshhh, it's okay," Melena continued, but the more she talked the more panicked Sheppard became.

"Heard you…" he choked out, pushing Melena's hands away with one of his. The broken arm lay limp at his side. "You said…said…heard you…"

"Heard what? What did you hear?" Melena asked, looking at Ronon in confusion. "Did you hear the radio?"

"You," Sheppard answered and he turned to look directly at Ronon. "Kill me…said you would…k-kill me…"

Realization dawned and Ronon shook his head. Sheppard grabbed his arm, locking the fabric of his shirt in a death grip and staring unblinking at Ronon. With more strength than Ronon thought Sheppard had, the injured man lifted his head to keep Ronon's face in view. His expression was flooded with a mixture of pleading and fear, but his jaw was locked shut, his lips pressing together in a tight line. He would not beg for his life. He would run and hide and fight, but he would not beg.

"I don't want to kill you, Sheppard," Ronon said. "If I did, I would have done it already."

"Ronon," Melena hissed, appalled.

Ronon ignored her. "I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about Kell."

Sheppard's eyes flashed at the name.

"Do you know Kell? He was the one who beat you and ordered you killed. You were shot and fell into the river. We found you and brought you here. Kell wants us all dead—we know too much now. We're not going to kill you."

Sheppard had relaxed as Ronon spoke, finally sinking back to the ground. His brief return of energy washed out of him, and he lay in the wet grass shivering and wrung out. Ronon unwrapped the fingers wrapped around his shirt then grabbed Sheppard's hand.

"I fought with you. I don't know if you remember this, but we fought together. You were hurt, but when I went down, you came back for me. You saved my life, Sheppard, and I will owe you that debt for the rest of my life."

"Wraith," Sheppard whispered.

"That's right. The Wraith were after us. You saved my life. I won't hurt you—we won't hurt you. Will you trust us?"

Sheppard paused, seemed to consider the question, then nodded. He turned his head toward Melena and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She leaned closer, resting her hand lightly on his chest.

"Hurts," he murmured.

Ronon could just make out the word. Melena sat back, assuring him she would help with the pain. A spot of red on the white bandage around Sheppard's head caught Ronon's eye and he started in surprise.

"Melena, his head."

"I see it," she answered, but she kept eye contact with Sheppard. She ran the backs of her fingers down the sides of his face, wiping away the gathering beads of sweat. Sheppard's eyes slid closed, but he jerked, forcing them open again.

"Let's get him inside."

Ronon nodded, and they lifted Sheppard's dead weight between the two of them. Once Ronon had Sheppard's body securely in his arms, Melena directed him back into the house and up the stairs. He set the man down on the bed then stepped back as Melena fluttered around.

"Can you make some more broth, Ronon?"

"Sure," Ronon answered, a little relieved to be let out of the room. He backed away, looking one last time at the man on the bed and caught a flash of green eyes under the eyelids. Sheppard was somehow still awake, although Ronon imagined he wasn't all that coherent.

He busied himself in the kitchen, preparing the simple broth. As he stirred the soup over the stove, his mind drifted back to the radio broadcast. He replayed the newsman's announcement over and over again, shaking his head at Kell's official announcement. Obviously, the isolationist group was just a scapegoat, if it even existed, which would mean their claim of responsibility for the bombings against the President was also false.

But why would Kell lie about that? He had been responsible for Sheppard's injuries and presumed death, so was he also behind the bombings? Ronon shook his head at the audacity of it, but there was a part of him that believed it already. He'd known Kell since his first day as a recruit. The man was ruthless and cruel and ambitious, and he would do anything to get what he wanted.

The question was what did Kell want? Ronon poured the warm soup into a bowl then set the bowl onto a tray. He grabbed a glass of water as well, then carefully made his way back up the stairs. When he entered the room, he saw that Melena had Sheppard propped up on a stack of pillows, and she was carefully unwinding the bandages around his head.

Sheppard's head lolled on his chest. His eyes fluttered open occasionally then rolled into the back of his head. Ronon set the tray on the desk then perched himself on the edge of the bed opposite from Melena.

"Can you hold his head steady for me?"

He reached out, letting Sheppard's chin rest in the cup of his hand. The skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat, and he grimaced. The last of the bandage came off, disgustingly bloodied, and Ronon looked away, swallowing quickly. Medicine had never appealed to him.

"Turn his head toward you a little," Melena directed, then went about cleaning the ugly gash running along the side of Sheppard's head.

It was the first time Ronon had actually seen it, and he felt his stomach flip at the sight. He had always prided himself on his strong stomach, and he'd seen a lot as an infantry soldier, but he never quite got used to the really horrific injuries. The gash along Sheppard's head ran from above his temple to the back of his ear. Melena had cut the hair around the injury, revealing pale skin marred by the bleeding, oozing laceration.

Sheppard moaned and whimpered in pain as she cleaned the wound out, and Ronon grabbed the man's flailing hand with his free one. He squeezed his fingers, trying to give him some kind of reassurance but he had no idea what he could possibly do or say that would make Sheppard feel better.

Melena worked quickly, and a few minutes later she was re-wrapping his head. Sheppard's eyes had slid closed and his shuddering breaths quieted into a steady rhythm. Ronon watched as she checked the rest of his injuries, holding him up when she re-did the bandages around his ribs. Melena grimaced at the sight of Sheppard's knee, and Ronon could see the swelling had gone up again.

"John, wake up," she called out after everything had been checked or re-bandaged, and the blankets pulled up around his shoulders.

Ronon moved to the desk where he'd set the tray of food. He could hear Sheppard moaning at Melena's attempts to wake him up. The man was still propped up, but his head rolled around on the pillow as he attempted to look around.

"We've got some broth here. I need you to try and eat a little. It will help you build up your strength."

"Hur'sss…" Sheppard slurred, closing his eyes.

Melena slid a hand behind a head to hold it steady then reached for the tray of food Ronon had set on Sheppard's lap. "I know it hurts. I'll get you something for that in a moment. Can you wake up a little more?"

Sheppard didn't respond, but when Melena prodded his lips with the spoon, he opened them enough for her to feed him the soup. Deciding Melena could handle it on her own, Ronon stepped back and pushed the heavy drape away from the window. Light poured into the room, but heavy clouds were rolling in across the sky. The autumn woods spread out below him in brilliant colors, and for a brief second he could almost believe they were alone.

"Here, drink this."

"Wazzit?"

"It's just water."

Ronon turned around to see Melena pressing the glass of water up to Sheppard's mouth. He could barely swallow, and after only the third or fourth sip, he slumped unconscious. Melena set the glass then the tray to the side, and Ronon rejoined her, holding the unconscious man upright while Melena pulled away the pillows. When she was done, they leaned Sheppard back so that he was stretched out flat on the bed, and then Melena pulled the covers back up to his neck. Sheppard slept soundly throughout the whole process.

Ronon watched him sleep for a moment before turning to Melena. "How is he?"

Melena was re-packing her medical bag. "Weak, but doing a little better. He's strong—I've never seen anyone fight through an injury like this. I think he's going to make it. Ronon—"

She stopped mid-sentence, biting her lip. Ronon could see the indecision on her face.

"What?" he asked.

"I was thinking about the radio announcement, what Kell said. If he lied about John, then—"

"Then he lied about the bombings against the President. I thought of that."

"Do you think he's behind the bombings?"

Ronon wanted to say no and opened his mouth to do so, but instead found himself nodding. "I do. He's up to something big and he will stop at nothing to get it."

"Maybe we should head south, somewhere where they won't think to look for us until this whole thing blows over. John will be strong enough to travel in a few days, if we're careful. Let Kell do whatever he's trying to do, and then we could get out of here, maybe slip through the ring with one of those trading companies."

Ronon was shaking his head before she had finished. "It won't work, Melena. Kell will never stop looking for us because we know too much already. Plus, if he's controlling the President—which I have to assume he is with his palace bombings—then he and Chieftain Madal will press forward with the plan to fight the Wraith. There will be nothing left of Sateda after that—I'm sure of it."

"I know," Melena said, slumping in defeat. "I just wish there was someway we could all get out of this. That we could stop what the future has in store for Sateda."

"We'll think of something. In the meantime, we've got to be prepared to leave fast. It's only a matter of time before Kell figures out I haven't shown up for work in days. Now that Sheppard's getting stronger, we need to think about moving somewhere else, where they won't think to look."

"Where would we go?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll figure it out. Just be ready." Ronon stood up and wrapped Melena in a hug. She felt small and vulnerable against him and he breathed in the scent of her hair, fresh flowers and rain.

"We'll get through this, Melena."

TBC…


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17_

The man called Major Lorne hovered, peppering Kell's office aide with questions. Kell had gotten the rest of the off-worlders off his back two days earlier with his story about the isolationist group claiming responsibility for Sheppard's death. They'd all seemed to believe it, but apparently Lorne was more distrustful than even Kell had realized. He had stopped by his office three or four times a day since their discussion, constantly asking for news.

Kell hung back, peering around the corner of the hallway. He had work he needed to finish, another "message" from the President to leak to the news agencies, a couple of prime suspects in the fictional Sateda Unity to establish, and he was in no mood to talk to Lorne. He backed away and turned down the hall before Lorne turned around, ducking into an empty sitting room. The palace was littered with these rooms—a waste of space and luxury.

His head throbbed with tension. As if things weren't messy enough at work, his wife had put her foot down, refusing to uproot herself and the children from their home. She hadn't packed a single thing despite Kell's plans to move her off-world as soon as possible, and the shouting match from that morning was still echoing in his head. Of all the times to stand up for something, she had to do it now.

"Commander?" a small voice sounded through the door.

Kell pushed himself out of the thick cushions of the sofa and opened the door. His aide spun around, his fist raised to another closed door a few feet down the hall in his search for his commander. He walked toward Kell now, squinting against what looked to be a headache of his own.

"What is it?" Kell asked.

"I just wanted to let you know that Major Lorne has finally left, for now," he answered.

Kell nodded with a sigh and followed his aide back to his office. He knew Lorne would be back in a few hours. Maybe they could come up with some "clue" to send him and his people out of his way for a while. That wasn't a bad idea, actually.

"That man is relentless," the aide muttered.

"I had an idea," Kell said, lowering his voice despite the fact that they were the only two in the hallway. He grabbed his aide's arm and led him into his office, closing the door against any unexpected eavesdroppers.

"We need to get them away from the capital for a day or so. The next time Lorne stops by, we will have suddenly discovered the possible location of Sateda Unity. Feel free to let it slip to him that we're sending a team out to investigate—in fact, invite him and his people along so that they can be a part of it."

The aide smiled. "Yes, sir. Any town in particular?"

"I'll leave that up to you. Pick a few places up north, but make sure it takes a while to get there."

The aide nodded and left the office. Kell had no doubt the man would find the right kind of place. It was a good thing the government was in such chaos, or someone might have noticed that this soldier had appeared out of nowhere. He was a hired gun, a mercenary with a dark and violent background—and very good at his job. As long as Kell continued to pay him well, he would do what needed to be done.

There was another knock at the door, and Kell called for him to come in, expecting the aide to reappear with a last minute question. Instead, a younger man, his arm in a sling, stepped in. His eyes darted around the room, unwilling or unable to look the commander in the eye. Kell glared at him, the memory of the young man's failure to execute Sheppard still too fresh in his mind. The young mercenary had taken a bullet to the shoulder from Sheppard's partner, but in Kell's mind, he'd gotten off easy.

"I didn't know you were out of the hospital," Kell said lightly, although he had known. His aide had told him so a few hours earlier.

"Uh, yes, sir. Just this morning."

The man was fidgeting with his one good hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He'd never had a military demeanor, and would fool no one in a uniform for long, but he had the right combination of cruelty, ruthlessness, and idiocy that Kell needed. He would beat, maim, or kill whoever Kell ordered him to.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"We…uh…might have a lead on Sheppard's partner."

Kell froze, looking at the young fool sharply. "Well, don't just stand there and sputter. Who is it?"

"Uh…well…one of my guys has been…uh…investigating…"

Kell resisted the urge to snap at him again, but he snapped his fingers in the man's face and almost smiled when the man flinched.

"One of the squadron specialists has been AWOL since the night of Sheppard's dea…er…disappearance. We had a little trouble tracking people down because of the holiday, but no one has seen any sign of this man."

"Who?" he asked, his voice low. The young man flinched again, grabbing onto his injured arm with a grimace.

"It's a Specialist Ronon Dex, from Squadron Four. Sir."

Kell blinked once, then twice, before guffawing so loudly that the mercenary actually stumbled backward, ready to bolt from the room.

"Did you say Ronon Dex?"

"Uh…yes, sir?"

Kell shook his head. Ronon Dex—it would take a little more than being AWOL during a holiday for him to believe Dex was in anyway involved in this mess. Not least because his girlfriend, that doctor-in-training, was dependant on Kell to get off of Sateda safely before the Wraith showed up.

"And what makes you think that Specialist Dex is involved?" Kell asked as he lowered himself into a chair. The brief bark of laughter had relieved some the tension in his shoulders.

"Well…he's AWOL…sir," the man replied, but Kell did not respond. He raised on eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. The man bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to recall the information he'd turned up.

"And…uh…his old squadron mates said they saw him the night of the…shooting. I mean, disappearance. They said he had told them he was on his way to the base to work on a mission report. That would have put him in his squadron tent a few rows over at about the same time as Sheppard was…uh…with us."

Kell felt some of the humor drop away and he frowned. "Did his old squadron mates report seeing Sheppard with Dex?"

"They said he was alone."

"Alone."

"Yes, sir."

"So Sheppard and Dex—who are basically complete strangers to each other—travel to the base separately, meet up at some point to discuss spying on us, split up again, and then Dex waits until we have a finger on the trigger of a gun pointed at Sheppard's head before intervening? If this is true, Sheppard might have been better served with someone a little more prompt."

The young man frowned, obviously not comprehending what he'd just heard, and Kell grit his teeth in irritation. He reminded himself that he'd hired the man for his ability to do dirty work without complaining, not for his brains.

"Never mind. Is that all you have?"

"Yes…er, I mean, no." He fiddled in his pocket with his good hand, pulling out a scrap of paper. "Dex's wife or maybe just girlfriend, Melena. Melena something…"

"Yes, I know who she is. What about her?"

"She hasn't been seen since the night of the disappearance either."

"They're both missing?"

"Yes. I checked their apartment, but it doesn't look like they've been home for a few days, and the neighbor said she hasn't seen either one of them since the holiday started."

"Maybe they're just on vacation," Kell answered, but he could sense the doubt starting to grow. Dex and his girl, both gone since the botched execution; Dex reportedly heading to base the same time Sheppard showed up. Could he believe the two men were connected? Did he dare not believe it? Could he risk it?

"One last thing," the young mercenary stuttered. "I heard at the hospital this morning…before I left, you know…that the doctors were all excited that General Tremek was getting better."

"Has he woken up?"

"No, but they don't think he's going to die anymore."

Kell's headache was back with a vengeance. He leaned forward, resting his forehead in one of hand. "Now, are you finished?"

"Uh…yes."

Kell looked up when the young man didn't immediately leave and glared at him until he backed out of the office, his uninjured arm wrapped protectively around the one in the sling. He should have shot the man when he'd had the chance, but he might still prove useful. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hoping the muscles in his neck would unwind a little.

A moment later he opened the door of his office and signaled for his aide. The man came in promptly.

"Did that miscreant tell you what he just told me about Specialist Ronon Dex?"

The aide nodded, a scowl covering his face as he mirrored Kell's expression. "Yes, sir. Would you like me to look into it?"

"Please do. It's too big a risk to just dismiss the information completely, and the story sounds plausible enough. Bring up everything you've got on Dex and that girlfriend of his while you're at it. If they are involved in this whole situation, I want to know every possible location they might be hiding."

"Yes, sir."

"And make it fast," he yelled as the aide shut the door behind him.

* * *

"Are you still hungry? We've got more," Melena said, setting the empty soup bowl on the small table next to the bed.

John sat propped up in the bed, the brown hospital shirt loose on his thin frame. It was the first time since he'd regained consciousness that he'd managed to finish the entire bowl, and Melena felt a scrap of relief float through her. He still looked horribly pale and gaunt with dark circles ringing his eyes, but he was eating, which meant he was getting better. He glanced at the empty bowl and moved a hand over his stomach, shaking his head.

"How about some water then?" she urged. She'd finally had to remove the IV in his arm after the last bottle of saline solution ran out, and it was a constant battle to keep him drinking and hydrated. He'd done almost nothing but sleep, which she knew was what his body needed, but it wasn't making other parts of her job easy with her limited resources. She wished for the hundredth time in the last few days that she'd brought more supplies with her, that she'd known the exact nature of his injuries when she'd packed her medical bag.

John's eyes were already starting to pull shut. She poured the glass then held it to his lips, not really giving him much of a choice. He responded automatically, too tired to fight her on anything. He managed a few sips before more of the water was dripping down his chin than down his throat. She pulled the glass away, and wiped the excess water off his face and neck. Between that and the soup, he should be okay for a few hours.

Speaking of which…

"Ronon, are you up here?" she called out as she stepped away from the bed and crossed the room. She poked her head out the door and scanned the hallway, but everything was quiet.

Melena moved down the staircase and through the bottom floor, glancing into all the rooms. Ronon had been frantically busy in the last couple of days. He had moved their van to some off-the-map back road, then filled it with food after one last trip to the local store. He'd packed bags of clothes for them to grab in an emergency situation, and made Melena pack up her medical gear. Over meals, he'd run through so many different scenarios and what to do in each one, that Melena was thoroughly confused and convinced she'd just curl up like a sobbing child when the critical moment hit.

She glanced out the kitchen window and saw Ronon's tall frame as he weaved his way through the trees toward the back door of the house. He'd probably been setting another one of his traps or early warning systems—whatever he'd called them. They were ingenious really, and would let them know the second anyone unexpected stepped foot on his property. He stooped down near the porch to gather an armful of logs for the fireplace, then pushed his way through the door.

"Hey," he said as he came in, smiling at her. He smelled of grass and dirt and sweat.

Melena smiled back at him. "Did you get enough dinner? There's a bit of soup left."

"Yeah, thanks." He dropped the wood near the door.

"John is just about settled for the night, but I want to make sure he gets a chance to use the restroom before he falls too deeply asleep."

"Alright," Ronon answered, giving her a peck on the side of the cheek before heading upstairs. It had become part of the daily ritual now that John was getting stronger. Melena would wake him up and Ronon would carry him to the restroom four or five times a day. In the mornings, Melena would change the sheets on the bed and clean the room up while Ronon helped John bathe. She knew soldiers, and John should have been horrified at his helplessness, but he was still too weak and in too much pain to notice much.

She followed Ronon up the stairs and into the bedroom. Ronon moved automatically to John's side and shook his shoulder. It always amazed her to see Ronon—who was stronger and tougher than anyone she knew—move so gently. John's head had slumped forward and it now lolled on his neck. He groaned at the intrusion, his eyes twitching as they struggled to open. He'd been asleep already, and Melena decided it was a good thing she hadn't waited to bring Ronon up.

"Let's go, buddy," Ronon said, peeling the cover over John's legs back. He slid his arm behind the man's back and pulled him up and over, until John was seated precariously on the edge of the bed. His face had gone another shade of pale, and he gripped Ronon's arms fiercely enough for his knuckles to turn white, his eyes still closed tight. Melena stood back, empty bowl in hand in case his stomach decided to rebel, which it had done on a few previous occasions.

Ronon stood in front of him, holding on to his arms and letting him adjust to the new position. When John gave a slight nod, Ronon lifted him the rest of the way to his feet and slung one of the man's arms over his shoulders. John sagged against him, barely able to hold up his own weight, but Ronon shifted again and they were soon shuffling out of the room. Melena almost smiled at John's refusal to actually open his eyes and look around. Apparently, he too was getting used to the routine.

She sighed in relief, happy that John hadn't thrown up, and set the empty bowl on the desk in the corner. She then busied herself around the room, opening the window to let in a gust of air. John got cold easily, but the room felt stuffy if she didn't let in a little breeze every once in awhile. She moved to the bed next, stacking all but one of the pillows on the side of the room.

A few minutes later, Ronon and John shuffled back into the room. John was holding the waistband of the too-loose brown hospital pants up with one hand, but otherwise seemed half asleep. He leaned his head against Ronon's shoulder with half-lidded eyes.

Ronon deposited him in the bed, and then Melena stepped forward to help John lean back onto the one pillow. John groaned, but whether it was in relief or pain she didn't know, and he was asleep before she had the chance to ask him. She grabbed the covers and pulled them up to his chest, tucking them in.

She looked up to see Ronon watching her, a glint in his eye. She smiled back, feeling a sudden warmth in her heart. Her life had changed so much in the years since she'd met Ronon, and even in the present mess, she couldn't imagine living any other way. She moved around the bed, knowing without seeing that Ronon was watching her every move. A cool breeze wafted through the open window, fluttering the drapes.

Before either of them could do or say anything else, she heard the soft jingle of a distant bell. She froze, cocking her head. Ronon had gone rigid. The sound of more bells clinked again, this time closer, and Ronon dove toward the window.

Not the window—her medical bag on the floor in front of the window. He leaned down, grabbed it, and almost threw it at her.

"It's my alarm system," he whispered. He was urgent, frantic almost, and his eyes were bright with intensity. "Get the other bag. I'll get Sheppard."

He moved without waiting for a response from her, yanking the blanket off the bed. He shoved John's feet into his boots, then lifted the man up like a small child and headed for the door.

"Melena, hurry!"

Melena hefted the medical bag over her shoulder and grabbed the top blanket off the bed at the last minute. She folded it as she ran down the stairs, grabbing the clothes bag from the front hall on her way to the back door. Her back and neck prickled as she moved to the kitchen, the realization of what Ronon's alarm going off meant finally dawning on her. She imagined a squadron of soldiers bursting through the front door, coming down on top of her.

Ronon was in the kitchen, peering out the window. The sun had not quite set, but the backyard was deep in shadows, and the forest beyond looked dark and ominous. He glanced at Melena as she came in, and nodded in satisfaction at the bags and blanket in her arms. Sheppard moaned, struggling to wake up again, a look of utter confusion on his face.

"The alarms we heard were from the front, but they'll be spreading out quickly to surround us. Ready?"

Melena's throat suddenly went dry, and she nodded. Ronon opened the door, looked around, then slipped out. Melena froze for a second, watching him disappear into the shadows.

Soldiers, Kell, danger.

The words jerked through her mind and spurred her forward, and she darted after Ronon. Every second she ran, she expected a shout of alarm behind her, bullets to crack through the quiet evening, pain to explode into her back. The trees enveloped her in the darkness of twilight, and she cringed at every crumpled leaf and snapping twig beneath her feet. The sound seemed to echo through the woods, revealing their position to unseen hordes of enemies.

She could just see Ronon's silhouette in front of her, running sure-footed through the forest even with the burden of John in his arms. She pumped her legs faster, trying to catch up to him and hoping she wouldn't trip.

Ronon suddenly dropped to the ground. Melena slid across the dirt as she forced her own momentum to slow down, and she squatted down next to him, panting heavily. John was flailing weakly in his arms, also breathing hard. Melena swallowed back the harsh huffs of air and strained her ears for sounds of pursuit as she moved around Ronon to grab John's fluttering hand.

"Any sign of them?" she mouthed. She could hardly hear her whispered voice, and wondered if Ronon had heard her question.

He had, and he shook his head in response. He stared back the way they'd come, his body tense and quivering. Melena realized she was seeing Ronon in full soldier mode, and while she'd seen the aftermath of it, she had never quite witnessed him in the moment.

He seemed bigger, stronger, more dangerous. His eyes darted through the trees seeing things and hearing things she could not even imagine. He hardly breathed as he listened to noises she could only guess at. She glanced around the quiet woods, at once grateful for the growing darkness and a little frightened by it. It would soon be completely black.

John had quieted down a little, but he too seemed tense under her hands. He was trying to lift his head and look around, and she could feel him shaking at the effort. This was not exactly what she'd had in mind when she'd told Ronon he was almost ready to travel. She kept a firm grasp on his hand and told herself she was trying to reassure him, and not the other way around.

She jerked at a sudden, distant shout. They were at the house. There was another shout, and Ronon sucked in a breath.

"We've got to move," he whispered.

"Is it them? Did Kell find us?"

Ronon stood up, adjusting his grip on John. Melena tried to help him, and she winced at the low moan of pain emanating from John's parted lips.

"It's has to be Kell," he answered. "The van's not far from here. Let's go before they get close enough to hear the engine start."

Melena nodded, but Ronon was already moving again. She heard another shout from the house and plunged into the darkness after him, her hand reaching out blindly in front of her until it caught a hold of the back of his shirt and guided her safely away from the immediate threat of Kell's men.

TBC…


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18_

The small vehicle sailed along the dark road, traveling much faster than was safe. Ronon glanced down at the gauges on the dash in front of him, searching for the one that would show how much gas he had left. The tank was a little over half full, and he hoped it was enough to get them to the capital.

His alarm system had worked, although the bells had been a lot softer than he had anticipated. It was a good thing Melena had opened the window. He glanced in the rear view mirror at her. She was sitting in the back seat of the small vehicle, one arm around Sheppard holding the blanket in place. Sheppard was asleep or unconscious, his head resting against her shoulder. Melena was leaning back in the seat with her eyes closed, but Ronon wasn't altogether certain that she had actually drifted off to sleep.

His van had sounded horribly loud when he'd started the engine, but the soldiers had not discovered the back road or their getaway plan. He'd driven almost the entire length of the bumpy road through the forest in the near dark, only turning the lights on when he finally hit the main road. From there, he'd peeled off into the night, toward the capital.

Melena had been breathing hard, fussing over Sheppard. Sheppard had been sprawled on the back bench, moaning in pain, and Ronon had felt a twinge of grief at what he'd put him through. As if the man hadn't suffered enough already. There'd been no other way though—they'd had to get away from the house as fast as possible, and Sheppard's shuffling gait would not have worked.

Ronon glanced in the rearview mirror again, this time searching the window behind Melena's head. The road stretched out behind them, dark and empty. The relief of escaping the house had lasted mere minutes. If they'd found his grandfather's house, they would surely recognize his van, particularly once they reached the more crowded streets of the capital city. Less than an hour after escaping the house, Ronon had pulled up to a small cottage and broke into the smaller vehicle parked in front. It hadn't taken him long to transfer Melena, Sheppard, and their stuff to the back seat of the new car, and then they were off again.

The engine sputtered and Ronon eased up on the gas pedal. He knew he was pushing the little machine to the limit. It was an older model in okay shape, and not worth nearly as much as the van he'd left behind. He just hoped the people in the cottage accepted the new van without complaining to the police and filing a report.

"Are you okay?" Melena asked, and Ronon glanced up at her tired face. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, gained at some point during their run through the woods.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Ronon answered.

"I can drive if you're tired."

"Nah, it's okay. You should get some sleep."

He watched Melena shift a little in her seat. Sheppard sagged into her, dead to the world, and she wrapped the blanket a little more tightly around him.

"How is he?"

"Unconscious or exhausted, or both. I can't tell. I don't think he was ready for that run through the woods."

"It was the only way," Ronon snapped, cringing at the note of guilt clearly audible in his voice. He bit his lips, forcing himself to focus on the road whizzing by in front of him.

Melena sounded tired and a little like she was speaking to a frustrated child or patient. "I wasn't blaming you, Ronon. I know what we had to do. You saved our lives back there."

They bounced along in silence until they reached the main thoroughfare heading toward the capital. It was late now, long after most people would be out and about. Ronon eased onto the wider, smoother road and accelerated as much as he dared toward the distant glow of city lights.

"What will we do once we get to the city?"

Melena's whispered voice startled Ronon and he looked around, checking the mirrors for any pursuers. They were alone on the road at the moment, only occasionally passing an unidentified vehicle heading in the opposite direction. He'd been lost in thought, but now that he tried to remember what it was he'd been thinking about, he drew a blank. He glanced in the mirror again and caught Melena staring pointedly at him.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, what are we going to do once we reach the city?"

Ronon sighed. He hadn't really thought that through. They'd had to get out of his grandfather's house fast, but then what? The city had seemed the natural place to go, but maybe they should head somewhere else, lay low until this all blew over.

He shook his head as soon as the thought crossed his mind. This would never blow over. They had to deal with it now.

"I'm not—" he started, and then a thought popped into his mind—the solution so clear and obvious he could almost hear the relief whistling out of him. "Tyre and the others, they can help us. There's got to be evidence, a trail, something that will show us what Kell's up to and who else is involved."

He caught Melena sinking back into her seat, a small smile playing across her face. She was worried and tense, but obviously the thought of having friends to turn to for help had had the same effect on her as it had had on Ronon. She squirmed a little, adjusting Sheppard's head on her shoulder and pressing her fingers into the side of his neck.

"He still okay?"

Melena nodded. "Yeah, he's okay."

* * *

Hours later, they reached the outskirts of the capital. Ronon had taken a few detours, making the drive longer than it should have been, but he wanted to be sure no one was following them. Melena had fallen asleep at some point, but now she sat up, staring suspiciously out the window.

They were in the western part of the city. It was a rough area, and the buildings looked more rundown than he was used to seeing. It was nearing midnight, but there were plenty of bars still open, and people milled along the sidewalk.

"He's getting warm," Melena said, and Ronon looked up to see her pressing a hand against his cheek. The bandage wrapped around his head seemed to glow in the bright lights coming from the bars and street lamps.

"There's an inn up here, I think," Ronon said. "We can spend the night there, then try and track down Tyre in the morning."

Ronon turned the corner and into the small lot behind the inn. He hated leaving Melena alone back here, but they didn't have much choice. The fewer people who saw them—and particularly Sheppard—the better. The last thing they needed was a bunch of questions.

The inn consisted of a bar downstairs with rooms on the three floors above it. Ronon strode directly to a desk at the back, ignoring the loud babble of talking and laughing from the bar patrons around him. The man behind the desk studied Ronon's face, and Ronon's stomach twisted at the thought that Kell might have leaked his picture to the press. The man finally acquiesced when Ronon slid a wad of cash toward him and handed over a room key, and Ronon took a deep, relieved breath as he walked back outside.

He broke out into a run and headed for the back parking lot, the key to their room on the top floor held in a tight fist. There was a shout from somewhere farther down the road, but it faded away quickly. The lot was dark, but no shadows moved, and he stepped quickly up to the back door of his small vehicle and threw the door open.

Only to find the back seat empty.

"Melena?" he whispered in the darkness.

Her answer was immediate, though she sounded high-strung. "Over here."

Ronon walked around the car to the edge of the parking lot and Melena kneeling on the ground holding Sheppard up. Sheppard was on his hands and knees, his arms shaking in their efforts to hold his body up. The blanket had slipped off his shoulder and lay half on his back, half on the ground.

"What happened?"

"He's sick," Melena answered, just as Sheppard started to gag. His body trembled as the spasms racked his body, and the smell of vomit wafted up toward Ronon's nose, making him grimace.

"I think the trip was too much for him."

"Come on," Ronon said, kneeling next to Sheppard when the man had stopped throwing up. "We've got a room upstairs. Can you walk, Sheppard?"

Sheppard did not reply, but he did try to push himself up to a sitting position. Ronon and Melena each grabbed an arm and pulled him to his feet. Sheppard groaned, swaying at the movement, but he managed to get his feet underneath him.

"I'll come back for the rest of our stuff. Let's get inside before anyone sees us."

Ronon ignored the few stares shot their way as they walked to the stairs near the back desk. Sheppard tried his best to walk with them, but he would have fallen if they didn't each have an arm slung over their shoulders. They shuffled up the stairs, leaving the noise of the crowd downstairs.

The room was at the far end of the hallway on the top floor, with a large window facing toward the heart of the city. It was a spectacular view, unexpected for such a cheap inn. The room was small but adequate, and relatively clean-looking. They deposited Sheppard on one of the beds, and then Melena went to work getting the injured man settled while Ronon ran back for the rest of their bags.

The next time through the bar, no one seemed to notice him, and he caught tidbits of their conversations. He felt a hollow pit form in his heart when he realized they were talking about the war against the Wraith. There was an excitement thrumming through the room, and Ronon knew many of the stories they were telling now would hearken back to the great battles in Sateda's history as the night wore on. He'd been just as enthralled as any of them with the tales of the old warriors, but now, after seeing war and battle up close…he shook his head. If only these people understood what they were getting themselves into.

* * *

John woke up hot and sweaty, and he pushed the thin sheet covering him off his body. The room was pitched in darkness save for a soft glow of light coming from the window. He blinked, trying to remember where he was.

Memories floated back toward him. He remembered eating too much of that soup the woman—Melena—had fed him, then they were outside, then they were driving in a car. He'd been lying down in the car at first, then sitting and leaning against Melena, unable to hold himself up on his own. His entire body had throbbed with one solid mass of pain—head, chest, stomach, arm, knee.

The hotel. Or inn—whatever Ronon had called it. John looked around the room, seeing fuzzy shadows take shape around him. He was lying on a bed, and he could just see the outline of two shapes on the bed next to him and the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing. It must be Melena and Ronon.

John's head still ached, and he felt his stomach slosh in sudden nausea. He glanced again at the other bed, half wishing one of them would wake up and help him, but he was not willing to cry out for help. His chest felt bruised and tight, and his knee was almost screaming.

He bit his lip trying to straighten his leg. His knee felt hot and swollen, but the pain eased perceptively once it wasn't folded underneath him. He must have tucked it under his other leg while he slept. He tried to breathe slowly and let his body relax. He was exhausted—more so than he ever remembered feeling.

Sleep was elusive. The shadows flickered across the wall and John realized the light from the window was from street lamps far below. They were back in the city. The thought filled him with a sudden sense of dread and unease. The city was dangerous—he knew this in the very core of his being. Bad things happened in the city. Something bad had happened to him in the city.

The fleeting nightmares of the last week danced in and out of his mind, too swift for him to fully grasp. His headache flared and he pressed a hand against his rebelling stomach. His throat still ached from the last time he threw up, and he didn't think his broken ribs could handle it.

He was hurt, badly. Why wasn't he in a hospital? Faces floated through his mind, some kind and smiling, other sneering. He knew his name, and he knew Ronon and Melena. He'd been in a room with a fireplace, and it had felt warm and isolated and safe. He remembered random trips stumbling down a hallway, leaning on Ronon…

He'd met that man before. They were both soldiers. They'd fought, side by side. Hadn't Ronon said something like that to him? He'd saved Ronon's life and now Ronon was saving his.

He remembered the Wraith all at once, and half sat up in bed before dropping back to the pillow with a whimper. His breath caught in his throat at the raking fire running from his head to his knee, and he tried to breathe through the pain. One of the lumps on the bed next to him shifted a little then settled back to sleep.

He'd been on a mission. They'd destroyed a Wraith cruiser but then something had happened. He'd been pinned down, unable to escape and Ronon had shown up. Two other faces came to mind, a beautiful woman with brown intelligent eyes and a man wearing a dark uniform and shooting at Wraith in the trees. Both of them were yelling at him. Were they friends? He knew he should know them, but he couldn't quite place them.

How was he going to get home if he couldn't remember his friends? What else had he lost? He obviously had a head injury, so maybe the memory loss would be temporary. If it wasn't though…he could be stuck here on this planet running for his life for…forever.

He was breathing heavily now and shaking, and he tried to pull the sheet back over him despite the fact that he still felt stiflingly hot. Bad things had happened here, in the city. He saw a man in shadows holding a gun, grinning as he fired. He'd shot John, but John had no idea why. What had he done to this man? Was he at war with someone else, not just the Wraith? Or maybe the man with the gun and the Wraith were connected.

It was too much to think about, and John rolled onto his side despite the mad protest from his throbbing body to do anything but lay on his back. He curled in around his stomach, waiting to just pass out.

"Did you hear that?" A rough voice broke through the darkness, jarring John out of his misery. He heard the people on the bed shift next to him, then the soft mumbled voice of Melena.

"What?"

"Sshhh," Ronon hissed. "I heard something."

John opened eyes to slits to see Ronon's tall figure lumber out of bed and head toward the window. His frame was perfectly silhouetted in the light from the street, and John had the sudden urge to yell at him to get away from the window.

"What is it?" Melena whispered, and then she too stood up and padded her way to Ronon's side.

There was distant scream almost too faint to make out, but the sound made John's skin crawl. There was another, then another, then another, the sound growing. John wanted to leap out of the bed and run to the window, to see what Melena and Ronon were both searching the city and sky for.

His body tensed, then sank back into the mattress. He wasn't going anywhere.

"There," Ronon said, and then John heard it.

It sounded like a buzz saw at first but it grew into a droning whine. At the loudest point, both Ronon and Melena flinched, and then the sound shot over them all, growing faint again. Screams followed in its wake, and the light coming in from the street seemed to grow brighter as more people woke up.

"Was that a…?"

"Wraith ship," Ronon answered. "They're here."

Melena moved closer to Ronon, and they stood together near the window. John could hardly keep his eyes open, but he could feel the adrenaline pumping through him. He wondered if it would be enough to move or fight, or if it would just keep him awake a little bit longer.

A sudden explosion reflected off Ronon and Melena's faces. Sheppard could just make out their profiles. The sound followed a few seconds later, but otherwise the room remained still and quiet. The attack had to be starting far from wherever they were. There were more screams, louder and closer this time, then another explosion and flash of light. John forced himself to sit up on quivering arms and he grunted at the pain that shot through the broken one. He'd forgotten about that injury.

There was a third explosion, and this one was definitely closer. The window rattled in its pane and Melena and Ronon both stepped back in surprise. The shock of sound that followed almost forced John onto his back but he sucked in a ragged breath and tried to swing his legs around to the side.

"Look there, Ronon. Another one!"

"I see it."

More explosions followed. More flashes of light and rumbling waves of sound. John swallowed the cry of pain and the sensation of his knee bending more than it should. He didn't remember it hurting this much before and he wondered what he might have done to it in the last few hours. He thought of Ronon carrying him in his arms and running through the woods. His legs had swung freely in Ronon's grasp. That had to be the cause of his current knee pain.

He was perched on the edge of the bed when Ronon let out a whoop of joy. The explosion that followed was bigger than anything they'd heard before, but the tone of the screams below changed instantly.

"We got one," Melena breathed, gripping Ronon's arm. "We destroyed one of their ships."

"It's not over yet," Ronon answered. He stepped up to the window and pressed his face against the glass, searching the skies. "Where's the other one? There were two."

They paused, listening to the silence. The noise of human masses was growing underneath him—cheering and hollering and clapping.

"There—over there," Melena cried out.

John pushed himself off the bed, balancing precariously on his good leg. His head swam, and he could feel sweat pouring down his face. The sound of the dart buzzing and the crowd yelling swirled together, hammering into his ears. He reached back for the bed, deciding that standing was not a good idea, and heard another blast rip through the sky.

"We got them, you bastards," Ronon said, pumping his fist in the air.

John swayed and stepped down on his bad leg to catch his balance, but it was too much for his knee to handle. He moaned as the world tilted upside down, and the last thing he heard before he crashed to the ground was Melena's startled cry.

.

.

.

.

.

"John? Wake up."

Someone was tapping at his face, and he tried to turn his head away.

"Come on, John. I need you to open your eyes."

Melena. John cracked open his eyes to see both her and Ronon kneeling on either side of him. The hotel room took shape behind their heads.

"Wraith?" John mumbled.

"Destroyed," Melena answered with a wide smile. "We brought down two of their ships."

"Two small ships," Ronon amended, looking pleased but not quite as impressed.

"Darts. We call 'em darts."

"Darts, I like that," Ronon said, then his face darkened. "They'll come back, send more ships. The Wraith won't just let this go."

He watched John as he spoke, gauging his reaction. John nodded. "They'll retaliate. They always do."

The room settled into an uneasy silence as all three of them thought about what that meant. The Wraith would return with a vengeance, but would they come tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? How much time did Sateda have?

Ronon shook himself and rested a hand on John's shoulder. "In the meantime, get your lazy ass off the floor."

"Ronon!"

Ronon looked up at Melena's appalled expression, himself the picture of innocence, and John couldn't help but laugh. A few seconds later he was regretting it, when the short bark of laughter turned to coughing, then gagging. He felt hands on his body, rolling him to the side. He'd thrown up everything in his stomach a few hours earlier, but a small trickle of spit and bile dribbled out of his mouth. His gut clenched and spasmed, unaware that it had nothing to reject, before finally relaxing.

Ronon lifted him up and deposited him onto the bed before John realized what was happening. The screaming cheers in the streets had grown louder in the last few minutes and the room seemed brighter. Everyone in the city had to be awake by now.

A damp washcloth was smoothed across his face, bringing him some relief. He turned his head toward it, letting other hands straighten out his legs. A knife of pain stabbed through his leg, and he jerked at the sensation.

"I need to check the bandage on his head."

Melena and Ronon were gentle but John longed to be in the infirmary, swimming in the good stuff. Carson always knew how to—

Carson.

John's eyes flew open as the memories locked away in his brain suddenly flooded back. The faces that had haunted him for some many days finally had names attached. Carson, Rodney, Elizabeth, Lorne, Teyla. Atlantis. He was from Atlantis—the city on the ocean. He was Colonel Sheppard, head of the military.

But why was he here, on Sateda? He searched Ronon's face as the man spread the sheet over him. He'd been on a mission with Teyla and Lorne—a joint mission, between Atlantis and Sateda.

No, not Atlantis. Atlantis was a secret. Canada. McKay had told everyone they were from Canada.

"I remember," he mumbled, and Melena paused next to him. He turned to look at her and remembered his first impression of her, gentleness and steel all meshed together. "I remember."

"Remember what?"

"My team, my people. We're from…Canada. Alliance…we wanted an alliance with Sateda…you have good fighters. We're fighting the Wraith."

"That's right," Ronon answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"We destroyed a Wraith cruiser, but they got the jump on us. We got cut off. I sent Lorne and Teyla back to the narrow canyon where the gate was, but I was cut off."

"You were with Solen Sincha," Ronon filled in.

"I remember, I remember." The memories continued to flood into his mind, so much so that he hardly noticed Melena unwrapping the bandage constricting his head.

"What about the night you were shot?"

"Ronon, I don't know if now is—"

"No," John barked, then coughed. He reached a hand up to his head, letting his fingertips brush against the skin. "I think I remember tents…"

"The barracks."

"I was looking for you. I wanted to thank you in person for saving my ass from the Wraith."

Ronon opened his mouth, then closed it, and John wondered if maybe he'd been a little too direct in his gratitude. He'd meant to build up to it a little, not just blurt it out like that. He never was very good at expressing himself. He hissed as Melena dabbed at the side of his head with the washcloth. He knew the head injury was bad, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know how bad.

Ronon nodded. "Anything after that?"

John stopped, rummaging through his memories. Everything was there right up until he walked into the rows of tents. The next memory jumped to the big house, and Melena caring for him.

"No," he whispered. "What happened to me?"

The question blurted out of him before he could pull it back. He didn't want to know, not until he was back in Atlantis, safe in the hands of Carson and his medical staff. He saw Melena and Ronon exchange a look, and a lance of fear pierced through him. Maybe he couldn't wait until he was in Atlantis. Maybe he needed to know now. He tried to push himself up, but Melena reacted instantly, pushing him back to the bed.

"You're exhausted and still recovering. You need to rest."

John shook his head, then winced at his throbbing headache. "Tell me, please. What happened?"

"Kell caught you near the tents," Ronon answered, but he spoke as if he'd already told John all of this information. Maybe he had. John's memories of the last week were vague and confused, reality mixing with dreams.

"Not sure what he wanted with you," Ronon was saying. "Maybe you overhead him talking and he'd said too much. I heard them beating you, then Kell ordered you killed. They dragged you to the river bank and…"

"They shot me," John said, seeing the images from his nightmares again. So that had been real, or at least partly based in reality. Melena lifted his head and began wrapping the fresh bandage around it. He bit his lip at the sharp sting the gauzy material caused when it touched his injured side.

"I tried to shoot them first and managed to take down the one with the gun, but not before he'd already fired. The bullet grazed your head and threw you into the river."

"Cold…"

"Freezing. You broke your arm and a few ribs, twisted your knee, and your stomach is pretty badly bruised. Not sure if that was from Kell's beating or the river, though."

John nodded, his mind racing. "How did I get out of the river?"

"I followed you in, dragged you out, then called Melena to come pick us up. That was almost a week ago now."

"And the fact that you're awake and coherent at all is a miracle. You've had your little chat. Now it's time for you to get some rest," Melena cut in and John saw the flash of steel in her eyes.

Ronon had seen it too, obviously. He held his hands up and stood, backing away from the bed.

"Wait," John called out, grabbing Melena's arm. "What are we doing here, in the city?"

"Kell found us at the house," Ronon answered before Melena could say anything. "I've got friends here—they'll help us expose Kell for what he is."

John nodded, and Melena pried weak fingers off her wrist and settled his arm back on the bed.

"My people—we should find my people, too. They can help," he whispered. Ronon stood over him and nodded once, and John relaxed. The pain battering against him surged, draining the last of his reserves.

"I have to get home," he mumbled and didn't realize he'd said it out loud until he felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"We'll get you home, John," Melena soothed, and the steel was gone from her face.

"We promise—we'll get you home."

TBC…


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19_

Rodney shoved his way through the jubilant crowds dancing in the streets. Bodies pressed up against him as the masses moved around him and he scowled in disgust. Clearly, most of these people had been up all night celebrating. The stench of alcohol and sweat hung in the air. Honestly? They couldn't stop for five minutes to take a shower?

The entire city was in an uproar of euphoria. They'd destroyed all of two darts, and it might as well have been an entire hive ship the way everyone was reacting. He was reminded again of how isolated these people were. Most of them knew of the Wraith, obviously, and some of the older ones had maybe even witnessed a culling. The President had told them the Wraith hadn't appeared in over a generation.

So really, the only people with firsthand experience of the Wraith were the military squadrons and those commercial trading groups, both of whom ran missions off-world. Were they out here celebrating too?

Rodney looked around. Well, maybe they were. It seemed like everyone and their grandmothers were out here celebrating. The military was probably celebrating the big explosions that had ripped through the night, because everyone knew how much those military guys loved explosions.

He sighed shaking his head and narrowly avoided an elbow to the nose as a man carrying three large pitchers of something alcoholic-smelling staggered past with a whoop. He revised his earlier thought. Some military guys loved explosions, but he couldn't generalize about all of them. Major Lorne certainly didn't seem pleased, and Rodney knew Sheppard wouldn't have been either.

They knew what destroying those two darts meant. Sheppard had waffled a little on Sateda's plan to fight against the Wraith, but he had generally been opposed to it. Both he and Lorne knew that Sateda could never beat an entire hive, and now these people had practically invited the Wraith to their doorsteps.

He felt a hand at his back and glanced behind him to see Elizabeth prodding him along, across a wide street. Teyla was a few steps behind her, and both their faces were rigid with shock. Rodney flashed to that night a few months earlier, standing on a balcony with Sheppard and watching wave after wave of darts strike the shield in brilliant flashes of orange and red and yellow.

The Wraith had been willing to sacrifice hundreds of darts against Atlantis' shield, and Sateda was celebrating the destruction of two darts. Two. He shook his head. They were naïve for believing they could defeat the Wraith, but they were good people and relatively advanced. They would have made good allies.

Beckett was waiting in the front lobby, his arms crossed in front of him. He was frowning at the crowds moving down the street just outside the door, but he smiled at the sight of Rodney and the others, relief spilling from his eyes. Kell had confiscate their radios, making some excuse that some militant group or another might use them to pinpoint their location and attack them the way they'd attacked Sheppard. Despite Rodney's insistence that that was impossible, all of their communication devices had been taken.

_Almost_ all their radios, he revised. They'd managed to keep one hidden away, for emergency use only.

"You made it through the crowds, then?"

"Barely," Rodney griped.

"How are you, Carson?" Elizabeth asked. The door shut behind them, blocking out most of the noise and smell from the street, and the tension in Rodney's shoulders fell away. "Was the hospital hit at all?"

They sat up half the night, watching the darts fire at the city at random and wondering whether the hospital had been hit—if Carson was alright. They'd had no way of getting through to him in the chaos that followed, prompting their trip through the crowded streets to reach the doctor.

"No, we're fine. How about the palace?"

"It wasn't hit, but one of the government buildings right next door was badly damaged. It was a little close for comfort."

"Aye, I heard about that. They brought the victims here last night."

Rodney looked a little closer and noted the dark circles under Carson's eyes. The man had been up all night again. Rodney was used to working long hours, but even he needed a break every once in awhile.

"I got a message from the President this morning, via Commander Kell," Elizabeth said, and Rodney heard Lorne snort in disgust behind him. Elizabeth raised her eyebrow at his response but continued on. "They've refused to allow us to bring back our Marines to search for John. We're on our own now."

"Well, not quite on our own," Rodney amended, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. The others grinned as well, and Carson stared from one face to the next, waving his hand to spur on their explanation.

"When I went to the gate this morning to inform the Marine units they wouldn't be returning, we were able to get a jumper through," Lorne answered.

"Did no one see it?" Carson asked.

"It raised its cloak almost immediately, and with the dart attack of last night and the celebration in the streets this morning, there were only a few people present at the ring, and they were…distracted."

"Distracted?"

"I was just trying to explain to them what we understand of Wraith darts and their fighting techniques," Rodney answered.

"Very loudly and exuberantly, from what I understand," Elizabeth jumped in. "Although I'm pretty sure they were more interested in the ale you were doling out than the information."

"Well done, Rodney," Carson said with a wide smile.

Rodney shrugged—all in a day's job. He was king of distractions when he needed to be, although Elizabeth was right. The ale had helped.

"Lieutenant Swanson has the jumper stowed away out of sight, just north of the city. If we get into trouble, they can come get us."

She sighed, and Rodney could feel the weight of Sheppard's disappearance pressing down on all of them. The Wraith attack the night before had just compounded the situation, adding a limited timeline to how long they could look.

"We need to talk," she said.

The others nodded, and Carson signaled them toward the staircase, leading them through the hospital. He and Elizabeth talked about Tremek's progress and his optimism that the general would in fact recover, if given enough time. Rodney tuned them out, lost in his own thoughts.

He replayed every search he'd made for Sheppard, mulling over in his mind every location, ever overturned rock, every unidentified footprint—every possible clue to the man's whereabouts. Lorne and Teyla also walked in silence, knowing Elizabeth was going to propose calling off the search and returning to Atlantis.

A half an hour later, they were sitting in an empty waiting room area arguing about returning. Rodney sympathized with Elizabeth, he really did. As the leader, she had to be the one to make the tough calls—to admit that Sheppard may be lost for good and that they needed to leave before the Wraith attacked again. Lorne and Teyla had immediately volunteered to stay behind and keep looking.

Rodney hadn't known what to do. He wanted to find Sheppard, and under normal circumstances, he knew he would have volunteered to continue looking. The appearance of the Wraith darts, and their subsequent destruction, changed things, though. The Wraith were coming—of that Rodney had no doubt. The fear of being caught on this planet when they finally arrived was almost overwhelming, and he wasn't sure he could do it.

It didn't matter in the end what he could or couldn't do. Elizabeth had turned down Lorne and Teyla's requests immediately. They were still arguing about it. The stress of the last week was apparent as the tension continued to ratchet up. Before long, Rodney wouldn't be surprised if they found themselves in a shouting match.

A commotion down the hall caught his attention, and he turned to see a group of people rush in, pushing a stretcher. Medical personnel swarmed, pushing a handful of people out of the way.

They were military, Rodney realized. Probably just back from a mission, one of their team hurt. He could relate to the dejected look on their faces. He'd been in the same place just a week earlier. He and Elizabeth had watched Sheppard come tumbling out of the stargate, his back covered in blood. Even now, the memory made Rodney's gut twist in apprehension.

That mission…the man Sheppard had been going to visit had been on that mission. Ronon Dex. He stood up and slipped down the hall toward them, hearing the heated conversation between Elizabeth, Lorne, and Teyla continue behind him. They'd had trouble tracking down any information on Ronon Dex or his whereabouts, but maybe these people knew something. It was worth a shot anyway.

"Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt," he started, immediately babbling. He forced himself to swallow back the stream of words he wanted to say, and looked at the group standing in front of him.

There were five of them, two women and three men. Their faces were covered in dirt and their uniforms looked crumpled. They smelled distinctly of not having showered anytime recently. Whatever mission they'd been on had obviously been long and difficult. There was a haggard exhaustion in all of their eyes.

"Um…," Rodney stumbled, suddenly having no idea what to say.

"What do you want?" one of the men asked, but Rodney hadn't been looking directly at them and wasn't sure who had voiced the question. He looked up at the entire group now.

"I was wondering if you knew Ronon Dex. He's a specialist in…uh…squadron…three? Maybe it's four. I'm not sure."

"Heard of him. What do you want with Dex?" the same man answered, and Rodney spotted him. His face was gruff and shadowed by a thick beard.

"My friend was looking for him, and now we can't find either one of them. I was just wondering if you knew where…"

The man was already shaking his head. "We've been off-world for three weeks. Sorry—can't help you."

They were interrupted at that moment by a young girl—a nurse, Rodney realized, although she looked a little too young to be working in a hospital. She ushered the military group toward a back room, telling them it would be awhile before they had any news of their friend. Her promise of warm food and showers propelled the group away from Rodney, and they disappeared through a set of doors behind the nurses station without another word.

Rodney sighed in defeat and was about to return to his own people when the small nurse bounced over to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to listen in on your conversation, but did you say you were looking for Ronon Dex?"

Rodney's heart leapt in sudden hope. "You know him?"

"Well, kind of. I've known his girlfriend since we were kids," she answered. "My name's Hali, by the way."

"Rodney. Doctor Rodney McKay."

"You're a doctor?" she asked and her eyes sparked with admiration.

"Well, not the type you're thinking of. I'm a doctor of astrophysics, among other things."

"Oh."

Rodney swallowed, feeling the awkward silence hover between them. He never was any good at this kind of thing.

"Uh, you said you know Dex?"

"Oh, right," Hali answered, relieved to have something to talk about. Rodney smiled at her to encourage her on. "Like I said, I actually know Melena—that's Ronon's girlfriend—although they've been together for over two years now. I don't see why they don't just get married. I suppose it has something to do with Ronon's parents—some falling out or something. Melena doesn't like to talk about it."

Hali, it seemed, needed very little encouragement to talk and Rodney resisted the urge to look down at his watch. "Is Melena here now?"

"That's just the thing," Hali said, lowering her voice to a whisper. She grabbed Rodney's arm and dragged him over to one corner of the room, glancing over her shoulder before continuing. "I haven't seen Melena in a week. I've heard her supervisor is in a rage—she's missed three shifts already. I think something might have happened to her. That's just not like Melena to miss work. She's training for her physician's license, and you don't just skip work when you're that close to being finished."

"Have you seen Ronon during this time?"

"No, but I don't really see him that much anyway. It is odd though that he hasn't come around looking for her or asking why she isn't at work."

"Maybe they're together."

Hali's eyes grew wide at the thought. "I bet they are. This holiday mess has gone to a lot of people's heads. They probably took off to spend some time together and lost track of the days. Do you think?"

Rodney blinked a moment, trying to process everything she was saying and come up with an appropriate response. "Yeah, probably," he said. "I could go by their place, just in case. Make sure nothing's happened to either one of them…"

"Oh, that's a great idea. I keep meaning to go to their apartment but I haven't had a chance. I've been working non-stop, trying to cover Melena's missed shifts, and then with the attack last night and all the celebrating…we've just been overwhelmed. I can hardly even find time to sit down."

Was this what he sounded like when he rambled? Rodney held up his hands to stop the flood of words. "Do you have their address?"

"Of course. Just a minute and I'll write it down for you."

* * *

Ronon pulled the small vehicle to the side of the road and peered up and down the sidewalk. This part of the city was a little less crowded, but there were still plenty of people out and about, most of them heading toward the center of the capital where the palace and government buildings were, as well as most of the impromptu parties. He shook his head a little baffled at the extent of the celebrations.

"Do you think it's safe?" Melena asked. She was sitting in the front seat next to him and staring up at the small apartment building where they had shared the last two years of their lives.

"I don't know. Maybe you should stay—"

"No," she cut him off. She glanced over at him and her eyes softened. "Please, Ronon. I just want to grab a few things. We have no idea when we'll be able to come back here."

Ronon nodded. He didn't like the idea of her coming into the apartment, which was no doubt being watched—either from the inside or the outside—but she'd refused to stay at the inn, out of sight. Ronon glanced into the rearview mirror at his other passenger.

Sheppard was pale and sick-looking, but he was holding himself up and staring intently into the street. His bandaged head rested against the back of his seat, and his eyes flickered over to meet Ronon's.

"How about you, Sheppard? You coming up to the apartment or staying here?"

Sheppard bit his lip, and Ronon could see minute trembles coursing through his muscles. "Uh…I think I'll wait here," he whispered. Ronon nodded, expecting no less. Sheppard had managed to eat a little breakfast that morning, which had pleased Melena, but everything about him screamed exhaustion.

"We won't be long," Ronon said, and he and Melena exited the vehicle. They made their way quickly toward the front door of the complex, and Ronon sighed in relief when no shout of alarm followed them in.

"Stay behind me," he said, and he made his way carefully up the stairs. The apartment complex was quiet, but it usually was. They lived in a mellower, residential part of the city.

The door to their apartment was closed, just as Ronon had last seen it before being called to lead the rescue mission for Sincha's squadron. He made Melena stand back, checked the hall, then approached the door without a sound.

It was locked, but a second later, he swung it open and stepped back. Again, no one came out screaming or firing weapons. He poked his head around the corner, catching a brief glimpse of the empty apartment before ducking out of weapons range.

Nothing to it now. He stepped into the apartment, making himself as big and imposing as he could, but all for naught. The apartment was empty. He ran through the rooms quickly but nothing looked like it had been disturbed. A few seconds later, Melena joined him.

"No one's been here," he reported.

"It feels surreal, doesn't it?" she asked. "Standing here in this apartment—everything looks just like it always has, but everything's changed. Everything."

Ronon walked over to the window and looked out at the city. He could almost hear the massive celebrations taking place all over the capital—maybe even the planet. There was a new energy pulsating in the air. He could feel it everywhere. He glanced down at the street, seeing a few people walking back and forth across the sidewalk. The roof of his little vehicle was just barely visible.

"Start packing," he said. "There's still a chance Kell hasn't connected us to Sheppard. If that's so, you can still get off-world with his people."

"Do you really think so?"

"I think that if Kell knew we were involved, he would have had someone come here to wait for us to return, to kill us, or to somehow sound the alarm. This place is empty." He fingered the window sill, covered in a layer of dust. "This place has been empty all week."

He moved to the closet and found the largest suitcase they owned, then set it on the bed. "I'm going to check the rest of the building, make sure we're alone. If anything happens, yell."

He left Melena in the room and scoured the rest of the building for anyone who might be watching. He remembered a narrow alleyway that ran along the side of the apartment complex and decided to check it on their way out. Their car was parked just a few feet away, but he didn't remember seeing anyone lurking in it when they'd entered the building.

A few minutes later, he made his way back to his apartment, feeling a little more confidant about their situation. The next order of business was to contact Tyre or one of his other squadron mates. Tyre would be better—they went back a long way together. He could hear Melena in the bedroom moving around as he tried to telephone first Tyre's place, then the barracks, then the hospital. He got no answer at the first two places, and a nurse telling him his friend had been released from their care three days earlier.

That was something, at least. The last time Ronon had seen Tyre, he'd been badly injured and recuperating slowly in the hospital. If he was back on his feet, he'd be in a much better position to help Ronon and Melena out. He called the base again, this time going for the general squadron number. Maybe Ara or Hemi or someone could help them, or at least tell him where Tyre was.

A bored voice picked up at the other end, and Ronon cringed when he had to give the man his name and rank in order to get the information he needed. If Kell was keeping tabs on the base—and there was no reason to think he wasn't—then he would be instantly alerted to Ronon's presence. There was a pause while the administrative recruit on the other end looked for the information Ronon wanted, and Ronon felt a brief flash of guilt that he might have just endangered Tyre and all of squadron one.

"I'm sorry, sir. Squadron one left early this morning on an extended recon mission. They're not expected to return to Sateda for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Ronon breathed.

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to leave a message for them?"

"No," Ronon said, cutting the man off and disconnecting the call. That was not the news he'd been hoping to hear. An extended recon mission? Now? The Wraith were about to show up, and their best warriors were off planet…

"Get me Specialist Sincha instead, of Squadron Two," he ordered.

There was a pause and the distinct sound of paper shuffling, and then the recruit got back on the phone. "They're off-world as well, undetermined time period. I can get you in touch with another squadron—"

"No, thanks," he answered, cutting the man off and disconnecting the telephone. Kell had to be behind that—he knew it. Two of the top squadrons off-world at the same time? Whatever Kell was planning, he was clearing the path of anyone who might get in his way.

Ronon made his way to the bedroom and found Melena standing near the window. She had turned the radio on and Chieftain Madal's voice echoed through the apartment.

"Sateda will not bow to invaders. The time has come for us to put our bravery on the line and defend our nation, our planet. All that we have built over these past two centuries..."

Melena was listening intently to the radio speech, the suitcase open on the bed and still empty.

"What are you doing?"

Melena turned toward him. "I'm listening to the Chieftain's speech."

"Why aren't you packing?" Ronon moved around the bed to the dresser and began pulling open the drawers, gathering the clothing and throwing them on the bed. "I traded every last thing we had to get you on Kell's personal staff."

"He's a criminal. He uses people's fear for his own gain."

"He's also a commander, and his staff gets to go through the ring. There's still a chance Melena. You can still escape this, sneak through the ring."

She turned away from him, looking out the window again. Madal was still droning on about bravery and courage and fighting for Sateda, but the words swirled around him, unnoticed. All he could see or hear in that moment was Melena.

"The hospital's going to need me," she said softly.

Ronon slammed the dresser drawer. "There's not going to be any need for hospitals, Melena." He waved at the radio. "That's just a bunch of words meant to make the people who don't get to leave think there's a chance for them. We shot down two ships that came through the ring. Two small ships. Do you really think that's all they're going to send?"

"Of course not."

"Sheppard's been there. He's seen what they do to worlds who resist them. Langus thought so too, as did Tremek, and Kell tried to silence them all."

Melena stepped back from the window, looking small and fragile. She was shaking slightly, and Ronon hated to see her so scared, but he had to convince her.

"Ships as big as our city have attacked other planets. No one who stays here is going to survive."

"And if I go with Kell, will you come too?" she asked. There was a hint of accusation in her voice, like she already knew Ronon's answer.

"Melena—"

"Why are you staying?"

"I have no choice."

"Yes, you do," she retorted. "You believe in this fight. Maybe not in Sateda's chances of beating the Wraith right at this moment, but you believe in fighting the Wraith wherever and however you can. You know they'll eventually find us, no matter where we go. We can't run forever."

Ronon dropped on the bed, the argument building on the tip of his tongue suddenly collapsing. What did it matter? He wasn't even sure he could get Melena through the ring in the first place. With Tyre and squadron one off-world, they're best chance was Sheppard's people.

Melena sat down next to him, wrapping an arm around Ronon's waist. "I don't want to fight with you, not right now. We don't even know if I can get through the ring with Kell's staff."

"I know," he said. "Tyre's off-world. The whole squadron's gone—left this morning. Our only sure chance now is Sheppard's people. Let's try to meet them first, and then we can argue about leaving or staying."

"Yes, sir," Melena mock saluted, a crooked smile lighting up her pale face and almost reaching her eyes.

They packed the suitcase quickly and made their way back down to the street. Ronon's mind raced. How were they going to find Sheppard's people? Show up at the palace and ask? Kell's people would be crawling all over that place. He dug into his pocket for the key and had just wrapped his hand around it when he glanced into the car and froze.

Sheppard was gone.

TBC…


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20_

Ronon glanced into the backseat of the car and froze. Sheppard was gone.

"Where'd—"

"Ronon Dex. We've been looking all over for you."

Ronon spun around, grabbing Melena and stepping in front of her. Two men, the smaller one with his arm in a sling, stood in front of them. He had no idea where they'd come from, but the man in the sling held a gun pointed steadily at Ronon's chest. He suddenly connected the face to a brief memory of a man standing on the edge of the river in a rainstorm. He'd been a member of Sheppard's execution crew.

"What do you want?" he growled. He had no weapon at all, just the key in his pocket.

"Our boss wants to chat with you. Seems you've been a little lax in your duties of late."

Ronon pushed Melena farther behind him toward the car, slipping her the key. He dropped the suitcase, then held both hands up. "I think you've got the wrong guy. No need for guns," he said, staring at the man with the sling.

"Unfortunately, you're a dangerous man, Dex. I learned that the hard way. We found your house out in the country, too. You left in a little bit of hurry now, didn't you?"

Ronon glared at the man for a second. He forced his breaths to come in and out slowly, the picture of utter calm as his mind raced. How much did they know?

"We've got a vehicle parked across the street," the man continued to talk. "You and your pretty girlfriend will come with us now, and if you put up a fight, it won't be pleasant."

"Yeah, alright," Ronon acquiesced, putting on his most defeated voice. He let his eyes dart toward Melena and saw she was somewhat protected behind the car. He dropped his hands and stepped quickly toward the man in the sling.

The man hesitated, not expecting Ronon to give up so quickly. His partner had yet to pull a weapon, so Ronon kept walking, using the skinny man in the sling's moment of surprise against him. He dove at him, wrapping one hand around the gun and pushing it to the ground, then swinging his other fist into the injured arm.

Ronon knew precisely where the bullet wound was, aiming his fist for that exact spot. The man screamed—a ragged, hoarse cry of agony that had him instantly dropping to the ground. His grasp on his weapon weakened, and Ronon wrenched it away from him.

The partner, a larger man who looked like he was used to throwing his weight around, launched at Ronon, delivering a kick to Ronon's stomach. The gun clattered to the ground. Ronon dropped and rolled, moving away from the two assailants and closer to where the weapon had landed.

Before he could grab it, the big man shifted and lunged at him again. He was a lot more agile than Ronon would have guessed, given his size. Ronon stood up just as the man barreled into him, and he backpedaled, trying to hold himself up against the other man's force.

He backed right into the car and landed on the hood. The air shot out of his lungs as the large man landed on top of him. He could hear the crunch of the car hood bending underneath them, and the high-pitched squeal from Melena no more than a few feet away. He wanted to yell at her to run—and tried to do so—but he had no air left in his lungs to make any kind of sound.

He kicked, miraculously catching the big guy in the knee. The man roared in pain and backed up, intent on flattening Ronon again. Ronon used the brief relaxing of pressure to slide sideways, swinging his arm around and landing a fist on the side of the man's head, just behind his ear.

The man roared again and stumbled away from him. He reached a hand out toward the ground, and Ronon caught a glimpse of the gun still lying discarded on the sidewalk. The man in the sling had yet to move from his curled up position. Ronon pushed away from the vehicle and kicked out with his foot, knocking the gun a few feet out of reach a split second before the big man grabbed it. He used both fists this time, wrapped together like a club, and swung at the man's head.

His fists connected, jarring his arms all the way up to his shoulders. The big man lurched sideways, then dropped to the ground fast. His head bounded off a nearby pole and Ronon swore he heard bone crack.

The fight was over almost as fast as it had begun. Ronon heaved in air, staring at the large man's glassy eyes where he had finally landed on the ground. He lay unmoving, and Ronon felt something twist in his gut. He'd killed in battle before, mostly Wraith, but every once in a while a human—a Wraith worshipper or slave trader. This felt different. This hadn't happened in the midst of war; it had happened in front of his own apartment. In front of Melena.

He spun around at the thought of her. She stood behind the car, half-protected behind it and stared at the man on the sidewalk in shock, then up at Ronon. Ronon took a step toward her then froze when her face changed from shock to horror.

"Bad idea, Dex," a wheezy voice breathed behind him. He turned around to see the man in the sling pushing up to his feet, holding the weapon. "Looks like I'm going to have to report to my boss that we tried to bring you in but you put up a fight. Unfortunately, you were killed in the process. He'll expect nothing less of you, Dex."

Ronon straightened up and turned toward the man with the gun. "Somehow, I don't think Kell's going to like that very much."

The man's face darkened at the mention of Kell's name. "_He's_ not here—I found you, I tried to bring you in, but you fought. Now you're going to pay the price."

"Actually—" Ronon started, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The man with the sling had just enough time to blink before he flew forward, moving in time with a resounding crack. He dropped to his knees, his eyes rolling up into his head before he even hit the ground, and the gun dropped harmlessly once again to the sidewalk.

Sheppard stood behind him, swaying. "Sorry, little late," he mumbled. The piece of timber in his hands dropped to the ground, landing across the back of their last assailant.

Ronon stepped toward him just as Sheppard groaned and pitched forward. "Sheppard!" he cried out, barely catching the other man. Sheppard's legs folded under him, and Ronon lowered him until they were both sitting on the sidewalk.

"You okay, buddy?"

Sheppard's head had drooped forward, but he jerked it up. "Um…yeah…little dizzy. Tired."

"Thanks for the save," Ronon said, nodding toward the man in the sling. Sheppard nodded in reply, then whimpered again.

Melena ran up, kneeling on his other side. She grabbed his wrist to feel for his pulse.

"We need to get out of here before anyone sees us," Ronon said.

"What about…those two…?" Sheppard nodded toward the two men on the ground.

"They said they had a vehicle around here. They might not be alone." Ronon grabbed Sheppard and hefted him up to his feet, holding him under the armpits when the man blanched and swayed. Sheppard's legs tried to fold under him, and his head fell forward. Ronon waited as long as he dared, trying to give Sheppard some time to get his bearings back, then started pulling him to the car. He looked up and down the otherwise empty street, wondering who might have seen them.

"Are they…I mean, should I…I should help, or try, or…"

Ronon looked up to see Melena standing over their two attackers, confusion, fear and compassion warring across her features. She was compelled to try to help them, yet terrified of what they might do to her. Ronon eased Sheppard into the back seat then moved toward her.

"Melena."

"Ronon, I think…this man…he's…dead…"

He swallowed back the lump of emotion that rose suddenly in his throat. He had killed before—this wasn't his first time seeing death up close. Was he scared, guilty, happy? He couldn't pinpoint it. He felt everything and nothing.

"Melena," he said again, his voice soft. "We have to go before someone else shows up."

"Ronon," she finally looked up at him, flinching when he touched her arm. Her eyes flashed in fear, and a lance of pain twisted through his chest. She was afraid of him.

"We have to go. Now. If their people show up first, we're dead."

She finally nodded, but not without another glance at the ground. Ronon led her to the car and guided her to the front seat. She stumbled as she walked, and he could feel slight tremors running through her body. She was in shock—he'd seen it a dozen times in new recruits on their first mission.

He moved around the car and climbed in, turning on the engine and accelerating down the empty street. The fight couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes, but they'd almost been caught. That had been too close. If it hadn't been for Sheppard…

Ronon shook his head. The little man in the sling had started to stir as he'd shut Melena's door. He hadn't quite been conscious but he soon would be, and then Kell would find out he'd missed them again. He reached the end of his street, and risked a glance in the rearview mirror. Sheppard was leaning heavily on the door—his face pale and haggard again, his eyes closed. Behind him, far down the street, the man in the sling staggered to his feet.

Ronon turned the corner and pulled into the heavy traffic heading toward the center of the capital.

* * *

"This is it?" Rodney asked, staring at a light brick apartment building.

Teyla followed his gaze, searching the windows for any sign that someone was home. According to the information the nurse at the hospital had given, Specialist Ronon Dex lived on the top floor. She studied the row of windows, but they all looked dark and unoccupied.

Their driver—one of the security guards from the hospital assigned to "playing temporary chauffeur," as Rodney had put it—affirmed that they were at the right place, then leaned back in his seat, giving the Atlanteans a clear signal that he would drive them anywhere they wanted, but he wasn't getting out of his vehicle. Lorne scanned the street while Elizabeth and Carson climbed out. They had both insisted on coming along—Carson in case they found John and he needed medical help, and Elizabeth because she was tired of waiting behind for news.

Teyla joined Major Lorne's side and scanned the street with him. It was relatively empty of vehicles and people. The apartment complex was set in a quiet residential area, and most of the celebrations taking place in the city were much farther north.

Rodney, bouncing with impatience, waved them toward the apartment building. Lorne took the lead, his hand hovering near the gun in his pocket. They weren't technically supposed to be walking around the city with any weapons, but she, Lorne, and Rodney all had handguns slipped into inside pockets. President Nurif's—or more likely Commander Kell's—refusal to allow the Marine search teams to return to Sateda had put them all on edge.

Teyla waited for everyone else to go inside, then followed them in, looking up and down the empty street one last time. The gun was a comforting weight against her side as she made her way up the staircase. The hallways were dusky despite the bright sunshine outside, and the group clambered up the stairs. If they were hoping to catch someone by surprise, they'd announced their arrival with many minutes to spare.

"To the left, I think," Rodney announced at the top of the last flight of steps. He ignored Lorne's attempts to shush him, and Teyla rolled her eyes. Any advantage they might have had was gone. Hopefully, if Specialist Dex was in the apartment, he hadn't just escaped out a back window.

"Stay back," Lorne said, glaring at the others until they hung back and pressed themselves against the wall.

Teyla moved forward and stood on Lorne's other side. She pulled the gun out of her pocket and let it hang by her side, her finger taut over the trigger. Lorne pulled his own gun and knocked on the door with the barrel.

The sound reverberated through the hallway, emphasizing the quiet emptiness. Lorne waited a few seconds, then knocked again. When there was still no answer, he glanced at Teyla, his eyes questioning.

She nodded back at him. They had to know what was in this apartment, regardless of the risks. She raised her gun with both hands and tensed. Lorne jiggled the handle of the door, which was locked, then slammed his shoulder into the wood. He grunted when the door didn't move, braced himself, and shoved his weight into it again.

This time, wood cracked and splintered. Teyla kicked out with her foot, raising her gun as the broken door swung inward. She and Lorne stepped into a small front room and scanned for any sign of inhabitants. Beyond the front room was a small kitchen, then a narrow hallway leading to a back bedroom.

Teyla moved silently down the hall, hearing Rodney, Elizabeth, and Carson enter the front room. The apartment felt empty, but she had to be sure. She was tense with anticipation, ready for any danger that might suddenly fly at her, but she could also feel the beginnings of disappointment. In the back of her mind, she knew they would not find anything here.

She made her way to the bedroom and stopped in surprise. The bed was covered with clothing, the drawers of the chest near the window all open. The closet was open as well, and a few of the clothes fluttered in the breeze blowing through the open window. Someone had packed hastily, she thought, and she was positive it had to have been either Specialist Dex or the woman, Melena.

But how long ago since they had been here? Had it been a week, or had they just left a few minutes ago? It was impossible to tell. Teyla moved to the window and peered down at the street below. She could see their van parked on the side, the driver's fingers tapping the door impatiently.

"Teyla?"

Teyla turned at the sound of Elizabeth's voice. "In here," she called.

Elizbeth and Rodney stared at the bedroom, blinking in surprise as they took in the disarray.

"Someone was in a hurry," Rodney said, wandering in to look around.

"I wonder when they left?" Elizabeth asked.

Teyla shrugged, turning her gaze toward the center of the city again. It was quiet at the moment, but she could almost imagine the noise emanating from the mass of people moving in that direction. If the Wraith showed up now, almost the entire population of the city would be in one place. She heard Carson and Major Lorne enter the room, and the same questions and uncertain answers were repeated.

Specialist Dex had been here, but clearly he wouldn't be coming back. Not anytime soon. She met Elizabeth's eyes and saw that the other woman had reached the same conclusion. The chance of them finding Dex and talking to him was growing slimmer and slimmer. The others lingered around the room, looking through the clothes on the bed, the empty drawers, and the closet as they all came to the same realization.

"We should head back," Elizabeth finally said. "We're supposed to be at the palace in less than an hour to go over the agenda for the big speech. I believe Commander Kell wants us on the dais for the entire event."

The others nodded, resigned or irritated. Teyla wasn't sure which she felt. She did not trust Commander Kell, although she could not pinpoint what it was about the man that grated her. Years of negotiations had taught her to trust her instincts, however. Kell had an air of ruthlessness about him, and Teyla had the distinct impression he was hiding something.

They made their way back out to the street, walking slowly toward the van that would take them downtown. No one really wanted to participate in the big speeches planned for that afternoon—they'd been suddenly thrust into the center of the celebrations taking place after the destruction of the Wraith darts. Given the popularity of the Satedan war against the Wraith, she could just imagine the content of the planned speeches and wondered if Atlantis would unwittingly get roped into the propaganda.

Ahead of her, Lorne suddenly stopped, kneeling down on the sidewalk. The others crowded around, trying to see what he was seeing, but Teyla hung back. Her weapon was once again a heavy presence in her pocket, and she glanced up and down the street.

"Blood," she heard Lorne say.

"It's fresh," Carson added.

Teyla took a step toward them, wondering what fresh blood on the sidewalk could mean. She could hear Carson fumbling with his med kit and she imagined he intended to get samples. Could the doctor possibly identify whose blood was on the ground, in a city of 200,000? What differences would it make?

She caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eye and turned around just in time to see a faded curtain drop over the window on the first floor of Dex's building. She was sure she'd seen a face through the glass, and she slowly backed up, heading toward the apartment building.

She'd barely stepped back into the building when a door to her right flew open and a small old woman peered out into the hall.

"Hello," Teyla started, cautiously. She buried her hands in her pockets, wrapping one hand around the hilt of her weapon.

"You with the police?" the woman asked, whispering. Her arms and legs were thin and frail looking, but the eyes danced in the woman's face, bright and alive.

Teyla shook her head. "No, we are not. We are searching for a friend and we were hoping Specialist Dex would be home to help us."

"Ah, you just missed him, although that's probably a good thing. The poor boy seems to be in some kind of trouble."

Teyla's heart picked up in her chest, thudding against her ribs. "Dex was just here?"

"That's what I said," the old woman huffed. "He and that girl of his, Melena. Nice girl. Don't see why those two don't just get married already. They already act it—"

"You said they were in trouble?" Teyla interrupted.

"Oh, yes. They've been gone all week, you know, what with the holiday and all. I didn't hear them come in, but I heard some shouting as they were leaving. Two nasty looking men followed after them, waving a gun around."

The old woman chuckled and Teyla opened her mouth to ask her what happened, but the woman needed no encouragement.

"Don't think they realized what they were getting into when they bothered Ronon Dex. He's a nice young man, kind-hearted most of the time, but he's military and good at his job. He jumped those two men faster than I could blink."

"He is safe?"

"Oh, yes. If they hadn't had a gun, he would have knocked them down without a second thought. He managed to get one down, then wrestled with the other for a few minutes before punching that one out. By then, the skinny one was back on his feet, and he had his gun back in his hands. I was halfway through dialing for the police."

"But you said he was safe. Where did they go?"

"If his friend hadn't stepped in to help at the last minute, that might have been the end for poor Ronon."

"His friend?"

"Don't know who he was. Never seen him before. He smacked that skinny one across the back of the head and the three of them—Ronon, Melena, and their friend jumped into a little vehicle and sped away. It must have been the friend's vehicle. I've never seen it before. Ronon and Melena drive one of those newer model vans—very nice vehicles—"

Teyla took a deep breath, trying to rein in her patience. Who was Ronon's friend? Her mind spit out an immediate possibility, but she couldn't dwell on it. She couldn't let her hopes get too high.

"I'm sorry," she interrupted again. "The friend, can you describe him?"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't really get a good look at him. He seemed tall, and he had a thick bandage wrapped around his head. Now that I'm thinking about it, I believe he was sick. He was pale, and he collapsed almost as soon as he hit that skinny man. Ronon seemed very concerned about him and helped him to their car. Ronon's a big man, but he can be very gentle when he wants to be."

"Did you notice his clothes or his hair, anything that stood out about his appearance?" Teyla pressed.

"Sorry, honey. I can't really remember what he was wearing. He had short dark hair though, and most of those military boys have long hair. It was messy and sticking up from the top of that bandage, pointing in every possible direction. You know, maybe he was a friend of Melena's and not military after all. His clothes—they looked just like those brown outfits the hospital gives you to wear once they release you from their care. Assuming, of course, you don't have your own clothes. Yes, he must have been Melena's friend. It wouldn't surprise me—Melena's a beautiful girl, and so smart. She could probably have her pick of any man…"

"Thank you," Teyla said, cutting the old woman off one last time. She squeezed the woman's arms in genuine warmth and darted back out to the street. Rodney and Elizabeth were jogging toward her, concerned written on both their expressions.

"John is alive," she blurted out, halfway down the stairs, forgetting her vow to not get her hopes up too high. Too late now. Her evidence was slim, but she was convinced—absolutely.

"What?" Rodney asked, almost screeched.

Teyla's heart pounded as she recounted every detail of the old woman's story. The drive to comb the city street by street was overwhelming, but their time was short. At Elizabeth's reluctant prodding, they piled into the van and headed off toward the big speech, and Teyla scrutinized every car, every person, every window they flew past.

John was alive.

TBC…


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21_

The closer to the center of the capital they got, the more crowded the streets became. Ronon inched forward through the traffic, anxiety thrumming through his body. He did his best to hide his face from casual passersby, but he was driving—ever so slowly—and couldn't hide completely. Most people were focused on heading toward the government blocks and the large nearby park anyway, the excitement at the President's speech moving through the crowds like an infection. If the Wraith showed up now…

He shook his head, slammed on his breaks as a group of pedestrians darted across the street in front of him, and turned at the next corner. They had to get away from these crowds. Maybe they could leave the vehicle somewhere close by and walk the rest of the way. He looked into the rearview mirror to see Sheppard dozing, his head lolling against the back seat, bouncing and sliding with the movements of the vehicle. Would Sheppard be able to walk?

Maybe for a little while. Ronon worked through a mental map of the government sector of the capital. The speech was at Victory Park, the palace a few blocks from there. The ring was in the large stone square a little farther from that. He turned another corner, speeding up as the crowds thinned out. Less people would be near the ring and Sheppard's people were staying at the palace. Would they still be there?

There were too many holes in Ronon's plan to really think it through logically. He was hoping Sheppard's people would be at the palace and Kell and his guards would not. The chances of that were slim, but could they risk showing up at Victory Park? Kell had to have every soldier and police officer in the city looking for them at this point.

He glanced at Melena and felt a pang of guilt again at ruining her chances of escaping. He'd tried to tell her she still had a chance, but he hadn't really believed it. He knew the second he intervened in Sheppard's execution that he'd taken away Melena's best chance of getting off Sateda alive. And now that the Wraith had attacked, there was little chance of him finding a new way out.

Melena sat in dazed silence, staring out the window without really seeing anything. Ronon felt a second wave of guilt pass through him. When Kell's men had attacked, he had reacted and he had survived, but he had not intended to kill anyone. Melena had seen a new side of him—one that was dark and violent. Would she look at him the same way? Would some part of her always be afraid of him? Could she—a medical professional intent on saving all life—still love a man who could extinguish another's so easily?

He opened his mouth to say something to her, but snapped his jaw shut. What should he say? He couldn't take away what she'd seen. He couldn't stop being a military man, a fighter. He knew deep down that he would do the same thing again, especially if it meant protecting her life. What he didn't know was whether Melena could live with knowing that about him.

The vehicle turned down a narrow road and the high walls surrounding the central square holding the ring rose up on one side. Up ahead was the entry into the square, guarded by a handful of soldiers. A wild thought suddenly struck Ronon. Could the three of them escape through the ring and contact Sheppard's people from another world? That would depend on how many people were trying to get off-world—he assumed it would be heavily guarded after the Wraith attacks the night before, but if most of them left to listen to the speeches…

Ronon looked up again at Sheppard, who was still asleep, and decided to pass the front entrance first. If there weren't a lot of guards visible, then he would wake the man up and tell him his plan. He had to make sure Sheppard could contact his people once off-world anyway.

At once, his new plan collapsed. The front entrance into the ring was mobbed with people all clamoring to get through. Reinforcements had obviously been called in to control the flow of people. About every third or fourth person—from what Ronon could see—was wearing a uniform. There was no way they'd be able to slip in, especially with Sheppard visibly injured and barely able to stand up.

"What's going on?" Melena asked, seeming to suddenly notice the crowds spilling out into the street.

"They're trying to get through the ring," Ronon answered.

"All of them?"

"Apparently, I'm not the only one concerned about our chances of success against the Wraith."

Ronon eased the vehicle around the people, hoping the guards wouldn't look too closely at him. They seemed overwhelmed enough dealing with the anxious mob trying to get off the planet as fast as possible.

They were almost past the crowd when Ronon noticed a tall, stern looking woman surrounded by uniformed soldiers. A cart of luggage followed her. She stared directly ahead, dragging two children by their arms toward the front entrance of the square. Ronon knew her, and he tapped the steering wheel trying to place her face.

The crowds thinned out almost immediately once they'd passed the entrance, and Ronon turned down another road. He could still see the woman's face, angry but resigned. Unlike the crowds clamoring to get to the ring, she did not look like she wanted to leave. Where had he seen her?

"Where are we going?" Melena asked.

"The palace," Ronon answered, but even to his own ears he sounded unsure. "I don't know where else to look for Sheppard's people."

"The speech," Melena said easily, like it was the most obvious thing on Sateda. "The radio announcer said they'd be at the speech, pledging their support to help Sateda fight the war."

"Wonder if they know that," Ronon mumbled. In the distance, he could see the roof of the ornate palace. Were Sheppard's people still there? Or where they at Victory Park now?

"I guess we're going to the speech."

Melena nodded and returned to staring out the window. Ronon was yearning to ask her what she was thinking, if she was okay with what she'd seen him do.

_Of course she isn't okay,_ he griped to himself. _She's just witnessed me killing a man—in self-defense, certainly, but that doesn't make it any easier to witness._

"His wife!" he suddenly barked out, flashing again on the stern woman walking toward the ring.

"What?"

"That woman going to the ring, with all the luggage. That was Kell's wife. I saw her at a dinner party a few years ago."

"Okay…"

He could feel Melena looking at him.

"Sorry, I couldn't place her right away and it was bothering me," he tried to explain. He slapped his hand against the steering wheel. "That was Kell's wife. He's getting his family off Sateda—did you see all the luggage the soldiers were carting for her. Kell probably planned to get her off the planet right from the start."

"What does that mean?"

"It means…" Ronon's voice trailed off. It meant nothing beyond what he already knew. He shrugged, unable to finish the sentence.

The crowds had grown thick again. The speeches were scheduled to start in minutes and the stragglers were pushing toward the park as fast as they could. Ronon spotted a lane, not really a street or alley but wide enough for him to park their small car. He turned down it, stopping a few feet in and away from the seething mass of people still flowing along the main street.

He jumped out and moved to the back seat of the vehicle, pulling out the suitcase they'd packed and flipping it open. Melena was slower to get out of the car, but she stood up and watched Ronon rifle through the suitcase with some confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for something," he said. "Can you wake Sheppard up? We can't leave him here."

Melena nodded, and he could hear her whispering Sheppard's name. Sheppard moaned in response, sounding dazed and groggy. Ronon smiled as he spotted the items he knew he'd thrown into the case, and pulled out three hooded jackets and a knit cap. He snapped the lid shut and threw it in the car, then moved around to Melena's side just as she was helping Sheppard stand up.

Sheppard swayed on his feet, his face turning a shade paler than it had been before. Ronon grabbed his elbow, steadying him through the wave of dizziness.

"You okay, Sheppard?"

"Uh…yeah, thanks. M'okay now…"

Ronon tossed one of the hooded jackets to Melena, telling her to put it on and pull the hood up. Thick clouds had moved in over the city in the last hour promising another winter storm. Ronon slipped his own jacket on, pulled his hair back, then stuffed it all under the hood. He hoped it would start raining soon—that would make them even less conspicuous. Finally, he helped pull the third jacket over Sheppard's head, threading his arms through the sleeves before the man had a chance to react. He held out the knitted winter cap.

"What's this?" Sheppard asked, leaning against the vehicle and snapping the top buttons of his jacket.

"A hat, to cover the bandages on your head. You won't stand out as much."

Sheppard nodded and grabbed the cap. He began pulling it on, wincing when his fingers brushed against the side of his head. Ronon could see the man's hands shaking, and he helped him pull the edges of the cap over the white dressings.

Sheppard looked sicklier than ever, like some of Melena's patients who had been in the hospital for months battling some disease or another. His hair was completely hidden under the cap. The dark circles under Sheppard's eyes stood out, almost matching the color of the dark cap and making his skin look gray and ashen.

"Can you walk?" Ronon asked, giving Sheppard's frail, trembling form a critical glance.

Sheppard pushed away from the car and squared his shoulders. It wasn't the most convincing show of strength, but it was enough to persuade Ronon that the man wouldn't collapse within twenty feet. Sheppard nodded, signaling Ronon to lead the way.

The three of them walked back to the main street and melted into the crowd moving toward the park. There were fewer people now, and Ronon jolted at the sudden sound of music—the drums and horns of the Presidential band—indicating the start of the big event. They moved as fast as they could, but Sheppard's progress was slow. At least his knee didn't seem to be bothering him too much. Melena and Ronon walked on either side of him, surreptitious hands on each of his elbows keeping him upright and moving.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of the park. Like most official parks on Sateda, it was ringed with a large stone wall. Open gates allowed easy access to everyone who wanted inside, and Ronon was relieved to see there were no guards standing watch. The crowd had gathered in a thick mass in the open field, eyes riveted to a raised platform at one end of the park, and Ronon, Melena, and Sheppard moved with the crowd toward it.

A group of young men rushed around them, laughing and jostling each other as they pressed through the crowds toward the front of the park. Ronon was about to yell at them when one of the boys laughed and pushed his friend into Sheppard. The boy flailed and stumbled into Sheppard before Ronon or Melena could do anything.

"Sorry, mister," the boy called out, looking slightly embarrassed. His friends laughed louder and disappeared into the crowds, and the boy pushed away from Sheppard to follow them.

Ronon scowled at their backs, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sheppard was breathing hard next to him, and Ronon glanced at the man. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He could feel Sheppard shaking as well, and was almost prepared when his legs suddenly buckled.

Ronon grunted, wrapping an arm around Sheppard's waist and lifting him back up. Melena grabbed Sheppard's arm with both hands and tried to steady him as well. She nodded her head toward the stone wall. Ronon looked up and saw the inside of the wall was ringed with tiny alcoves, and he dragged Sheppard in that direction.

Sheppard, for his part, tried to stay on his feet and help Ronon along, but his head hung on his neck. He was on the verge of passing out. Ronon ignored the occasional curious stares directed toward him and pressed through the people until he reached the wall. The first two alcoves were occupied, but the third was nearly empty. Ronon chased two young kissing teenagers back out into the crowd, then lowered Sheppard to the ground against the back wall.

"John?" Melena called out, kneeling on his other side.

Sheppard looked up at the sound of his voice, his eyes fluttering. He was panting and slumping to the side, but he fought to keep himself upright. Melena reached under his armpits and lifted him up, sliding in next to him so he could lean against her. She grabbed his wrist to monitor his pulse.

"Should I get some water or something?" Ronon asked.

Melena looked up at him and nodded. The look of confusion and fear that had seemed to be burned into her face for the last few hours had dropped away completely, and in its place, Ronon saw her professionalism and strength return. She was a doctor now, not some scared young woman, and she would face whatever she needed to face to care for her patient. Ronon smiled, encouraged when Melena smiled back at him before turning her attention back to Sheppard.

Ronon weaved back into the crowd, scanning for the vendors he knew wouldn't be able to resist the selling opportunities this gathering offered. Within minutes, he found someone selling jugs of water at an exorbitant price, but he shoveled the money over with a grunt and worked his way quickly back toward Melena and Sheppard. Rain began to spit down into the crowd, doing little to dampen their excitement but doing a lot for Ronon's peace of mind when the majority of the people pulled on jackets and coats and buried their heads under hoods and caps.

Sheppard was looking a little better by the time he returned with the water. He rasped out a heartfelt thank you when Ronon handed him one of the jugs of water, and Melena held it steady as he took a long sip. A voice boomed out over the crowd, causing a ripple of silence to pass through everyone even as they pressed closer to the dais.

"That's Chieftain Madal," Melena said, still sitting next to Sheppard with an arm around him to hold him upright.

"Yeah. I didn't get a clear look at the stage, but if Sheppard's people are here, that's where they'll be." He glanced out at the crowd standing just outside the alcove, then back at Melena. "Stay here with him. I'm going to try to move closer."

"Be careful," Sheppard said, catching Ronon's eye. His gaze was intense, and he suddenly looked much stronger than he had mere seconds before.

"I will," Ronon answered. He gave Melena's arm one last squeeze, then moved back into the crowd.

The rain was coming stronger now, the pattering of drops drowning out Madal's voice. Ronon ignored his actual words, hearing more the rousing inflections and the instant crowd response. He worked his way forward along the side, noticing that there were more guards near the front. For once, he cursed his height, worrying he would stand out too much, that the guards would spot him moving forward.

He could see the dais clearly now. Chieftain Madal stood at the podium, waving both arms above his head. His squat body was animated, peppering the crowd with emotional callbacks to past Satedan victories. Behind him and to one side stood Kell, seemingly oblivious of the rain and staring with dark eyes into the crowd of people. On the other side was a row of chairs, occupied by strangers in hooded jackets.

Ronon studied their faces until he recognized the smaller woman with the brown hair. She'd been fighting with Sheppard and Sincha when he'd led the rescue team toward them. She and another man with short dark hair…Ronon nodded in relief, seeing the other man at the very end of the row. He was tense, his back straight, and his hands stuffed into his pockets as he stared out at the sea of faces.

Madal suddenly waved at the off-worlders and began talking about their new alliance. Sheppard's people stiffened in their seats, their faces tight. Unlike the crowd, they were not responding with any sign of excitement. Madal launched into the benefits the alliance would bring, and as Ronon expected, he mentioned their plan to fight the Wraith first. The off-worlders' faces darkened, though they didn't look surprised. The crowd began cheering wildly, and Madal's voice was lost in the screams.

The cheers were so loud that Ronon almost didn't hear the pop of sound that echoed across the park. In fact, it didn't fully register until the cheers of the people near the front of the stage turned to screams. Ronon moved to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of what had happened at the same time as his mind connected the popping sound.

A gunshot.

More of the crowd was screaming, jostling each other and backing away from the stage. Sheppard's people had jumped up from their seats, and one of them had run toward the podium. Kell was also moving toward the podium, his eyes focused on something at his feet. Ronon realized Madal had stopped speaking at the same time as he caught a glimpse of the Chieftain lying on the platform floor.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the excitement of the crowd turned instantly to fear. Ronon was shoved to the side, and he pressed himself up against the wall as people tried to get away. The crowd in the back didn't seem to realize what was happening, and their cheers mixed in seamlessly with the screams of those standing closer. The two groups pressed toward each other, the ones in back still wanting to move closer and the ones in front desperate to be anywhere else.

Two of the off-worlders were now kneeling next to Madal, as was Kell, but none of them seemed to be doing much but staring at the body in front of them. Madal himself was deathly still. The guards around the stage were frantic, waving their guns in the air and looking for the shooter. Ronon was grateful that Melena and Sheppard were hidden in the alcove out of immediate harm.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind when an explosion ripped through the park. In the three seconds of silence that followed, Ronon found himself curled up on the ground, his hands wrapped around his head. His ears rang from the noise, and the muted world staggered around him.

Sound returned, crashing down on top of him and making him want to curl up even tighter. He thought of Melena and forced himself to his knees to look around the park. A wave of smoke from the explosion washed through the crowd. Screams and cries of panic began to pick up as people realized what had happened and staggered back to their feet. The threatened stampede finally materialized, every person intent on the safety of themselves and possibly a few nearby family or friends.

The site of the explosion was obvious—about halfway back and in the middle of the park. The center of the audience. A pit was gouged into the ground. Ronon forced himself to turn away from the bodies, but not before his stomach flipped with nausea. He swallowed back the sickness and horror of what he was witnessing, pushing it to the back of his mind, and turned his attention to the platform.

One of the off-worlders was leaning over the side throwing up, and Ronon's stomach clenched in sympathy. The woman warrior was next to him, rubbing his back and reminding him instantly of Melena. The alcove Melena was in was far enough away from the blast that she wouldn't have been hit by the explosion, and the stampede of people would be heading to the gate. She was out of their path. She was safe—she had to be safe.

The two off-worlders next to Madal stared out across the park and the rampaging masses in shock, and the third—another woman—stood frozen, an open target for whoever had shot Madal.

Ronon pushed to his feet, intent on reaching Sheppard's people. Soldiers ran past him, trying to control the riot erupting throughout the park and no doubt in the streets beyond. He couldn't see Kell anymore, and he scanned the area behind the stage for the man's face.

"What are you doing?" someone yelled behind him.

Ronon stopped, but before he could spin around he felt a sharp jab in his lower back as the man—a soldier—jammed the butt of his rifle into him. Ronon flew forward, landing on his hands and knees. He felt his muscles tense, anticipating the fight.

A second explosion shook the ground, knocking Ronon and the soldier behind him to the ground. This one had been closer to the stage, spraying clumps of dirt over the wood platform. The man behind Ronon swore, scrambled to his feet and took off toward the exit at a run.

Ronon pushed himself up and looked toward the off-worlders, feeling his hood fall away from his head. The off-worlder soldier was pulling the woman—the open target—away from the stage, yelling the entire time. Ronon couldn't hear what he was saying, but he could see his mouth moving. He grabbed the one throwing up and propelled him forward as well, then turned back to the one still leaning over Madal's body. The sick one and the target were obviously civilians and in shock. The woman warrior took over where the soldier had left off, grabbing both of them and steering them off the stage.

Ronon yelled, and the woman warrior looked up, her hand moving instantly to her side pocket. She froze at the sight of Ronon. Her eyes opened wide in recognition and she took off running toward him. They reached each other within seconds, and Ronon grabbed her with both arms.

"Ronon Dex?" the woman asked.

Ronon nodded. "Your friend—Sheppard—"

"Where is he? Is he alive?" The desperation in her voice was palpable, and Ronon swallowed sympathetically. He waved his hand toward the back of the park and the alcove where he'd left Melena and Sheppard.

"Back there," Ronon said.

The woman warrior turned to yell at her companions. The two civilians, whom Ronon recognized now as being the leader and the head scientist, had stayed back near the stage. He realized he must have looked quite a sight, running toward them, yelling and waving his arms.

A movement flashed directly behind them, and before Ronon could give any kind of warning, Kell stepped up, wrapped his arm around the off-world leader's neck and jerked her off balance. He lifted his other hand and pressed his handgun into the scientist's temple.

The woman warrior next to him went utterly still, and Ronon saw the off-world soldier on stage slowly moving his hand toward his pocket. He slid his eyes back to Kell's face, wishing once again he had some kind of weapon on him.

Not that he could have taken Kell out from this angle. The leader, despite her thinness, was proving to be an effective shield. The woman warrior stepped back a little behind Ronon, and he could feel more than see her moving her hand to her pocket.

They must have weapons on them. That was the only explanation. Kell's mouth moved but Ronon couldn't hear what he was saying. The steady drip of rain washed out any sound. Kell stepped back, his arm firm around the woman leader. He spoke again, and the scientist flinched into motion, moving with Kell with arms and legs so stiff they hardly bent when he walked.

The soldier on stage made his move, whipping out a black handgun. Ronon watched the scene play out in slow motion, knowing what was going to happen before it did and unable to stop any of it. Kell swung his arm toward the soldier and fired, pulling the woman with him as he moved. The off-worlder jerked and spun, landing heavily on the stage next to Madal. His gun skittered along the wood surface, then dropped off the edge into the dirt.

When Ronon turned back, Kell and the two off-worlders were gone.

TBC…


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: **Just a quick note - I'm trying to get the rest of this story posted by this coming Monday, so expect lots of updates over the next couple of days!_

_Chapter 22_

John's head throbbed. Each pounding pulse through his temples begged him to stop whatever he was doing and just lay down, but he forced his feet forward, step after step. The hands on his arms held on tightly, directing him through the crowds of people streaming toward the park for the political speeches.

A good thing, too. John could hardly see straight, and he would probably have fallen flat on his face without Ronon and Melena's help. His head hung forward, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. The throbbing in his knee had died down considerably since the night before, more of an annoying, limping ache than a debilitating injury. In the back of his mind, though, he wondered how much longer he could keep going before the rest of his body quit on him completely. For once, he wished he was lounging in the infirmary—a warm, soft bed under him, numbing painkillers running through him…

He felt more than saw the group of boys pushing and shoving each other in front of him. He looked up just as one of the boys rocked backward, slamming into him. A flailing elbow caught him in the side of the head, and his vision whited out from the flash of pain running from the head wound down his neck and back. It happened so fast he hardly had time to moan, and then the boy was yelling and pushing back into the crowds in front of them.

John felt his legs buckle, and his feet moved too slowly to catch his weight. He could feel himself sliding toward the ground, and then the hands on his arms tightened and hefted him up. The crowds grew thicker, and John watched their stomping, bouncing, shifting feet pass by as he, Melena, and Ronon worked their way through the pack.

A minute or two later, John felt Ronon shift his weight and suddenly he was being lowered to the ground. He felt cool stone seep through his back, and he tried to open his eyes, but black spots danced across his vision. His body began sliding to the side and he moved uncoordinated hands to push himself upright.

Melena appeared in front of him, worry spilling from her face. He felt her lift him up then slide an arm behind his back. His muscles felt like rubber, and his body immediately sank against her. If he could just close his eyes for a little while…he just needed a little bit of rest and then he could keep going…

Seconds or minutes later—he had no idea—Ronon was kneeling in front of him holding out something that looked like an old-fashioned milk jug. John took it, trying to ignore the quivering in his arm. It was heavier than he expected, and he would have dropped if Melena hadn't grabbed it at the same time and held it steady for him. She tipped it toward his mouth, and cool water dripped down his throat.

"Thank you," he rasped out after a long sip. Ronon smiled and sipped from a second jug before handing it to Melena.

A voice boomed out across the park and John flinched at the sudden sound. Only a handful of the crowd was visible from their little stone alcove, but they all straightened and shushed each other. Their faces were alight with excitement as they focused on whoever had started to speak.

"That's Chieftain Madal," Melena said.

John leaned his head back against the stone, letting the coolness soak in again. The flaring pain of a headache was dialing back again, but it never really went away. It had been there since the moment he had woken up in Ronon's and Melena's home.

"Yeah," Ronon was saying, and John forced his eyes open. He had to get his act together, be watching for another attack like the one at the apartment building earlier that day.

"I didn't get a clear look at the stage, but if Sheppard's people are here, that's where they'll be." He paused a moment, and John watched him glance at the people clamoring to get closer to the speaker, then look back at him and Melena. "Stay here with him. I'm going to try to move closer."

His people were here, maybe even just a hundred or so feet away. John wanted nothing more than to go with Ronon, but he knew he wouldn't even be able to stand up. He sat up as straight as he could and caught Ronon's eye.

"Be careful," he said.

Ronon's eyes widened a little in surprise at the look John hoped he was giving him, then nodded. "I will," he responded. He touched Melena's arm for a brief second then disappeared into the crowds.

John stared at the spot where he'd disappeared, wondering if he could stand up. All he needed was for Rodney or Teyla or Carson to see him, to know he was here. He leaned forward, pushing against the ground with shaking arms, and went…nowhere.

He grunted as a lance of pain shot through his head and chest and he collapsed back against Melena's embrace.

"Easy, John. Ronon will get to your people. You need to relax."

John did not want to relax, but he was breathing too heavily to say so. He closed his eyes against the pain, not daring to move until he felt Melena prodding his lips with the water jug. He drank a few more sips, then let himself sag against her body. She pushed his head onto her shoulder and urged him to rest.

He wasn't sure if he rested or not, but a distant scream jarred him to full consciousness. He'd heard something else, though. Something right before the scream that had set his heart pumping. Even now, he could feel the adrenaline washing through his exhausted body, and his muscles twitched and tensed in anticipation.

"What was that?" he mumbled, straightening up from his slouch. Melena was still sitting next to him.

"I…I'm not sure…"

The screams were getting louder in the crowd. John pushed against the ground, bracing himself to stand up, and bent his uninjured leg underneath him. The crowd beyond the alcove was swarming, shifting backward and forward like a stormy ocean. Something was happening—John could feel it in his gut and he shivered with the dread that twisted inside him.

Melena sat frozen next to him, staring out at the masses just a few feet away. She could sense something was going on as well. John opened his mouth to tell her he needed to check things out when a clapping boom pummeled the air, splitting through John's head. He gasped both in surprise and pain. Without a thought, he grabbed her and forced them both to the ground.

John could feel the dirt underneath him vibrating, picking up the screams and cries and thunderous pounding of feet. The crowd just beyond the alcove seethed, charging toward the park entrances with abandon. John twisted on the ground, grimacing at the flare of fire in his head as he looked over at Melena.

"Are you okay?"

Melena stared at him, white-faced. "What was that?"

"Explosion."

"Ronon…?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. I'm going to check things out, but I need you to stay here."

She nodded, sliding over to give John room to push himself up. The park outside of the alcove had devolved into utter chaos. He crawled forward to peer out into the park, and saw soldiers had joined the bedlam, screaming and waving their rifles as if that would calm people down.

The center of the park itself was horrendous, a deep gouge in the earth surrounded by bodies, some still moaning and trying to get away. John turned away from the scene of carnage and knew that image would haunt him for a long time to come. He scanned the groups of people fleeing in every which direction, looking for Ronon's distinct form. The stage where the speaker had been was barely visible in the distance.

"Hey, you!"

John jerked at the shout, and turned to see a soldier pointing at him. The soldier grabbed a comrade and spun him around. John saw recognition dawn on both their faces, and he scrambled backward.

"Ah, crap," he muttered.

"What is it?" Melena asked, her voice high-pitched and breathy.

"Soldiers—get back, as far as you can."

John looked down at his feet, searching for something to defend them with. Melena had backed up as deep into the alcove as she could go, which wasn't far. John turned around frantically, but the only thing even remotely useful was the empty water jug. He grabbed it, its heavy weight in his hand somewhat reassuring. His exhaustion was completely masked by the adrenaline of the explosion and the pounding steps of the approaching soldiers.

He used the wall to pull himself up, then had to lean against it when the world suddenly tilted. He swallowed against the dizziness and nausea, breathing through his nose. He did not have time for this. Melena had taken a step toward him, but he waved her off.

The two soldiers ran right up to the opening of the alcove, their rifles only half raised. John wasn't sure what they expected to find, but he swung the arm holding the jug toward the first one to appear, striking the man in the side of the head. The jug broke, jarring John's arm all the way up to his elbow, and he staggered to keep his balance.

The first soldier dropped to the ground, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. A small trickle of blood dripped from a gash over his ear onto his cheek. John caught enough of a look at him to realize he didn't look like a soldier—there was something almost indefinable about how soldiers carried themselves, and this man hadn't had it. He was in a uniform, certainly, but…John saw an image of a tent, Kell standing in front of him, and men holding John's arms as another "soldier" pummeled him.

The second soldier—if he was a soldier and not just some hired mercenary—jumped forward, swinging his rifle at John's head like a baseball bat. John dropped to his knees, a fall more than a coordinated defensive move. He raised his arm as the rifle came at him, knowing he wouldn't survive another blow to his head. The move was instinctive, and the rifle landed hard on his bandaged arm.

John screamed as his already broken arm erupted in agony. The thick bandages had absorbed most of the blow, but it felt like his arm was breaking all over again. He fell forward, smacking his face against the hard-packed dirt, and tried to curl around his throbbing limb. The mercenary was screaming something, and he could hear Melena yelling back.

Melena—he had to protect her. He owed that much, at least, to Ronon and her. He pushed up with his good arm, but he'd hardly gotten to his knees when he felt a rough hand grab him by the back of the shirt and jerk him forward.

"You're not going anywhere," a voice sneered above his head. John blinked at the pair of boots swinging in front of his vision. He grabbed at the hand holding him up with one arm, but his broken arm swung like a dead weight in front of him, and no amount of mental coaxing could convince it to move.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a flash of light, then heard the echoing boom of a second explosion. He turned his head in time to see a cloud of smoke erupt just in front of the distant stage, and then the ground shuddered under his knees.

"What the hell?" the soldier screamed, spinning around and dropping Sheppard on the ground. More screams spread as people realized another explosion had gone off. The few still hanging around the park turned and ran, their only thought survival.

John rolled on the ground toward the mercenary, bracing himself for a fight only to see the man's back as he too ran from the park. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it would have been a short fight with him landing on the losing side. He groaned at the renewed throbbing in his arm. He just needed a moment. If he could just lay here and take a second to gather his strength…

"John?"

He opened his eyes at the touch on his shoulder and saw Melena leaning over him, her face once again etched with worry.

"I'm okay," he mumbled. "Help me up."

She did, grabbing him under the arms and doing most of the lifting. John scooted to the side of the alcove so he could peer around the edge and look out into the park. "Hand me the rifle," he said, pointing at the first soldier's discarded weapon. Once Melena had done that, he pushed her behind him again. "Stay behind me, no matter what."

"Okay," her voice was soft, terrified, and he could almost feel her trembling behind him.

John looked out over the park. Very few people in the park were still moving, although he could hear the moans and whimpers of pain of those still alive. Beyond the walls of the park were the more distant rumbles of throngs of people running and yelling, of alarms, and of weapons. Over it all, the steady drum of rain droned on.

"Melena," he said, half glancing back at her.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Thanks for everything you've done for me."

She didn't respond right away, but a moment later he felt a small hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. John leaned forward again, looking toward the stage. His people had been here—that's what Ronon and Melena had both said. They would have been on the stage, close to that second explosion.

From his vantage point, the people near the stage looked small, almost indistinguishable, like puppets. There was more movement down there than anywhere else in the park, though. John wiped at his eyes, trying to see what was happening.

"Ronon!" he cried out, spotting the larger man's dreadlocks as he ran toward the stage.

"Where is he? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he is. He's moving toward the platform."

A smaller figure suddenly darted toward him, and John gasped in surprised when Ronon pointed toward him and the figure turned in the same direction.

Teyla.

He pushed himself up from the ground, using the wall and his good hand to keep himself steady. His arm throbbed at the movement, and he closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. He could feel Melena's hands at his back, and whether she intended it or not, it grounded him enough for the world to steady around him.

Teyla and Ronon had turned back toward the stage. John saw Elizabeth and Rodney standing off to the side and looking in his direction. Lorne was on the stage, heading toward a figure on his knees. Carson. John wondered if the man was hurt, then realized the doctor was leaning over a body. From the explosion? Or something else?

He didn't have time to figure it out. He heard a shout of surprise and turned to see a man appear directly behind Elizabeth. He snaked an arm around her throat and jerked her backward, then lifted his other hand to point a gun directly at Rodney's head. He knew that man. He'd seen that face too many times in his nightmares over the last week, its features burned into his brain.

Kell.

Even standing so far away, John could see Teyla and Ronon tense. Lorne stood on the stage, one hand hovering over his side. He had to have a weapon—he couldn't imagine any of them not having a weapon of some kind on them. John lifted the rifle but it was too heavy to hold steady and fire with one good arm, and he had no idea of the accuracy of it to begin with. He would more than likely end up hitting Elizabeth or Rodney.

He could do nothing but watch the drama unfolding in front of him, and he cursed his weakness and the injuries holding him back. The rifle was too bulky, and he let it slip through his hands to clatter to the ground.

Lorne moved quickly, but not quickly enough. John cried out at the sight of Lorne's body being flung backward, the report of weapons fire reaching his ears a split second later. He stepped forward away from the wall, and was momentarily relieved when he didn't sway or collapse. Lorne fell, and before he'd even hit the ground, Kell had disappeared behind the stage out of John's sight, taking Elizabeth and Rodney with him.

"No," he choked out. This was not going to happen. This was not how things were going to end. He staggered forward out of the alcove toward his friends.

Carson was already moving, crawling over to Lorne. John could just make out Lorne's feet, but he wasn't moving. How bad was it? From that range…all thoughts of his own injuries fled from his consciousness. He had to reach his people, to know how badly Lorne was hurt, to find Elizabeth and Rodney, to stop Kell no matter what the cost.

"John!"

The voice screamed across the park, and John looked up to see Teyla running full tilt toward him. Behind her, he saw Carson look up in shock.

"Teyla," he cried out, although his voice sounded weak to his ears and he wondered if she'd heard him.

Not that it mattered. Teyla ran right at him, almost barreling him over, and wrapping her arms around his waist. John stood there, momentarily stunned by her reaction, then wrapped his good arm around her as well, burying his face into the top of her head.

"We thought you were dead. They told us you had been killed," she was mumbling into his chest.

"It's okay. I'm okay," John breathed out. Teyla stepped back, lifting his head in both her hands.

"You are far from okay, but you are alive," she said.

John gave her a half-hearted grin, hearing too much truth in what she was saying. "Kell…" he started.

"Where's Ronon?" Melena asked.

The three of them turned back toward the stage, but Ronon had disappeared. John stepped forward, Teyla and Melena on either side of him, and he smiled at the sight of Carson and Lorne heading their way. The doctor was supporting his second-in-command heavily, holding a bloody bandage to his shoulder, but Lorne was on his feet and walking.

John, Melena, and Teyla met them halfway. Both women refused to let go of his arms no matter how much he tried to shake them off, so he gave into them and let them support him. The rain had turned into a soft drizzle, but Carson guided Lorne into another alcove then stepped up to wrap John in a quick embrace.

"We thought you were dead, lad," he said a second later. He looked John up and down, concern creasing his face.

"So I heard," John answered. "It's good to see you, Carson, Major."

Lorne nodded, lifting a hand a few feet off the ground in a semi-wave. Carson was already pushing John toward the alcove and out of the rain. In the distance, John could hear the ringing sound of sirens quickly approaching. He cocked his ear, trying to figure out how far away they were and who they might be.

"Those are ambulances, sent from the hospital," Melena filled in, seeing John's look. She glanced out at the dead and injured lying in the park. "I should help them. I need to help them."

She stood there a moment, staring out at the dead and injured. John watched the war on her face—the fear over Ronon's fate battling against her need to help the rest of her people. Her jaw set as she came to a decision, and she turned back to John.

"John, please, if you see Ronon, tell him I went to the hospital to help with the injured. He'll understand—he'll know where to find me."

John studied her face and recognized the resolve in her eyes. He finally nodded. "I'll find him."

She smiled in relief. There was so much more he wanted to say to her for what she had done for him, but the words fled his mind and he stared at her dumbly. A second later, she darted out into the park, waving her arms at the medical personnel just arriving.

"John, lad, you should sit down. You look just about done in," Carson said from behind him. Next to him Teyla grabbed his arm. He could feel his body shaking from the excitement of the last few minutes, but then he flashed on the image of Elizabeth and Rodney, hostages to Kell.

Kell—who had beaten him up, who had ordered his execution, who had pursued him and Ronon and Melena all over the city—hell, all over Sateda. Kell was using this war for his own gain, was going to sacrifice Elizabeth and Rodney the second he no longer needed them.

Kell was not going to win this time. He felt a flood of rage flow through him, energizing his battered body.

"Sorry, Carson," he answered. He turned to Teyla. "I need you to stay here, protect Carson and Lorne."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going after Elizabeth and Rodney. Ronon saved my life; I can't let him face Kell alone. Make your way to the gate and we'll catch up with you there."

He took a step away from her but stopped when she grabbed his arm.

"John…"

"He will kill them. As soon as he gets what he wants, they're as good as dead."

She looked like she was about to argue with him, then nodded her head in assent. "I am coming with you."

"Great—wait, what?" John asked. He could have tried to argue with Teyla, but he was pushing the limits of exhaustion to begin with and he didn't have any extra energy for it. Besides, he could tell just by looking at her that he wasn't going to win that argument.

Beckett spoke first, ending any discussion that might have materialized. "I can handle things here with Major Lorne. Both of you, go. Find Elizabeth and Rodney. We'll meet you at the jumper."

John could feel the adrenaline coming back, thrumming through his veins and lending a last ounce of strength to his quaking muscles. The jumper? He had no idea what Carson was talking about, but he hoped Teyla did. He could spare no energy to ask, and without another word, he staggered off toward Kell and Ronon, Teyla close on his heels.

TBC…


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23_

John could feel Teyla staring at him as he forced himself into a staggering gait toward the stage, and he half-expected her to yell at him to stop, to make him go back to Carson and just sit. Maybe she was still too shocked by his sudden appearance to say anything. At any rate, he stumbled across the park, ignoring the cries of the injured, the smell of dirt and blood and smoke, the nagging thought that he had no idea where he was going or how long he would be able to keep going there.

He didn't dare look back, or slow down. He knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to continue. His arm throbbed in time with his head. Teyla paced him easily, standing close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but he managed to stay upright.

He replayed his first encounter with Kell in his mind. Overhearing his plans in the tent city. Being beaten by Kell's mercenaries while the man stood over him, smiling. Kell ordering his execution, his face cold and impassive, as if John had been nothing more than an insect unlucky enough to land under his foot.

The man was ruthless, cruel, and heartless. Anger surged through him at the thought that he was going to use Elizabeth and Rodney—John's own people—to achieve his goals. And then there was Ronon and Melena. They'd done nothing to get involved in this mess besides try to do the right thing and help an injured man. Ronon was an honorable soldier, and even now, with his promise to return John to his people fulfilled, he had still taken off after Kell. He was still doing the right thing. John forced himself to dwell on these thoughts, and the rage at everything that had happened to him and his people in the last week did what the adrenaline could not—propelled his legs forward and pushed his pain to the back of his mind.

The stage was set up at one end of the park, and there was a gap between it and the park wall of about twenty feet. John scanned the area, seeing no one. There was an exit gate in the far corner opening up into a busy street. John stumbled toward it, feeling dread lace its way through his anger. How was he going to find Kell? How would he know which direction they went?

The street beyond the gate was crowded with people running in every direction. The panic from the explosions was, if anything, growing. Even as he watched, a truck pulled into the gate—a hospital van moving slowly toward the injured. Directly behind it, a police car sounded its siren and blocked the entrance.

Where had Kell gone? Had he taken Elizabeth and Rodney out into the streets of Sateda at gunpoint? His eyes raked the stone wall for any other possibilities and caught a quick flash of silver light.

John veered toward the light. It had disappeared almost as soon as he'd seen it, and he looked up and down the wall for where it might have been. The back wall looked different than the one he and Melena had stopped at. The alcoves were fewer and not as close together. They were also deeper, with small high square windows opening up into the street beyond.

"Where did they go?" Teyla asked, spinning in place and looking as confused as John felt.

The flash again. John blinked and staggered toward it. The sirens of the emergency vehicles sounded amplified now that they'd entered the park walls, and John's stomach curled in sympathetic nausea to the pain splitting his head. He reached the wall and leaned against it, forcing the dizziness back. Sweat dripped down his face.

The silver flare had been just outside one of the alcoves, directly behind the center of the stage. He stared at the muddy ground…he had just seen something. A light breeze wafted through the park and the drizzle of rain picked up again. John dug his fingers into his eyes to wipe away the moisture.

There. The flash of light again. He scrambled forward and didn't realize he was staring at a piece of trash until he was almost on top of it. What had he been hoping for? He kicked at it with his toe, and the silver lining on the inside of the wrapper caught the light again. A piece of trash. He'd been following a piece of…

A powerbar wrapper. The wind blew harder, flipping the wrapper over so that John could read the outside. Chocolate peanut butter—Rodney's favorite.

"What are you telling me, Rodney?" he muttered. The rain was coming down harder now, and John ducked into the nearest alcove. His head felt like it was cracking open, unwilling to connect thoughts into something coherent. "Think, John, think. Rodney dropped a wrapper, like a trail…"

He glanced around the alcove. The wrapper had been just outside of this alcove. There was a small high window at the back, smooth stone walls along the sides, a door. John jerked. A door? There hadn't been a door in his and Melena's alcove. The door was just barely visible, smooth and painted the same color gray as the stones around it and hidden in the shadows. It was on the side of the alcove, and there was no apparent handle.

Teyla stepped in front of him before he could move and pushed at it, almost falling forward when it swung open easily into a dark space in the stone between the alcoves. John blinked in surprise, willing his eyes to adjust to the dim light as he peered over her shoulder. A few seconds later, he saw a staircase disappearing into the ground. Utter silence drifted up from the depths below.

"Let's go," he said, leading the way. He heard Teyla following him and knew she had a hundred questions about what had happened to him over the last week, but pursuing Kell was taking all of John's attention right now. She would ask her questions eventually, but for now, he was glad they were moving in silence.

The staircase was steep, but there was a railing along the side. John leaned into it, letting gravity do most of the work. Within minutes, the staircase had curved away from the door above, plunging the entire passage into absolute darkness. John slowed down, not wanting to risk tripping. He had no idea how deep this went.

Minutes passed. It felt like an eternity before light appeared at the bottom of the staircase. Lamps were lit up along a narrow passage. The staircase leading to the park was at one end; the other end stretched too far to see where it led. John paused, listening for any sign of Kell, Ronon, or his people, but he heard nothing. Even Teyla made only the barest whisper of a sound behind him.

There was nothing to it—they had to keep going. He resumed his stuttering run, wincing at the pain in his head. At least it was quiet and cool down here. That helped his headache a little. His feet pattered against the cold stone, echoing up and down the passage. He could hear his harsh panting as well, and he cringed at his complete inability to move with any kind of stealth. Teyla was silent behind him, her hand lightly grasping his arm. Any other time, he would have shaken her off, but if she needed to hold onto him, even just to reassure herself, that was okay with him. Plus, if he did trip, she might save him a few extra bruises.

He had no idea how long they ran along the single passage, but abruptly it split into two branches. John stared at both of them.

"Come on, Rodney. Talk to me," he mumbled. He looked down for another wrapper but saw none. One passageway felt draftier than the other, but what did that mean? Did that mean an open door at the other end? Could John assume they had gone in that direction?

They had a fifty-fifty chance. He walked a few feet in, and stopped, his mind racing. Rodney would figure out a way to let him know where they were going. He was sure of that. He scanned for any kind of markings but saw none. Teyla ran her hands along the wall and studied the ground, looking for any sign of Rodney or Elizabeth.

John walked back and tried the other passage. There was no breeze in this one, no indication of where it might have led. It was also darker. Two of the closer light bulbs had blown, casting deep shadows. John bit his lip—he had to make a decision, but the two passages went in very different directions. If he chose wrong…

It was pure luck that he stepped on Rodney's pen. He felt it crack under his boot, and he looked down at a white ball-point Bic pen with a black cap. Only someone from Atlantis would be walking around down here with a Bic pen.

"Teyla, over here."

John staggered off again, one hand on the wall to keep him grounded and walking in a straight line. Teyla jogged alongside him, and he tried not to notice that she was moving at a speed just barely above walking speed. The lights flickered off and on, but it was bright enough for them to see where they were going. The tunnel curved slightly, but a few minutes later, he spotted a door and lunged toward it.

Locked. There was nothing on the ground or the walls around it—no sign from Rodney. John and Teyla looked at each other with a shrug, then kept moving. They passed three more locked doors. It was taking too long to find them, but the fear that they would arrive too late to save anyone spurred John on.

He saw the powerbar before he spotted the door and grinned. This powerbar was uneaten—apple cinnamon. John pushed against the door, grunting at the effort. It was heavy and creaked slightly, but Teyla threw her weight into it, and between the two of them, they managed to get it to swing inward to another staircase.

"Ah, hell," John swore. He should have realized he'd have to go back up the stairs.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just wishing they had transporters here."

They started climbing, but John had to pause every few steps to catch his breath. Sharp pains were wrenching through his stomach now, and he swallowed against the bile inching its way up his throat. On a good note, his arm and head throbbed so constantly he could almost ignore it. _Never mind,_ he amended. _Maybe that's not a good thing._

An eternity later, they reached the top of the stairs. He leaned against the frame while Teyla peered out into an ornate empty hallway. When she waved the all-clear, he stepped forward and blinked in surprise. They were in the palace. There were no wrappers or pens or powerbars on the spotlessly clean floor, and he looked right and left, trying to decide which way to go.

John thought back to the first time he'd been in this place, trying to figure out where they had emerged. The staircase and stained-glass window had been front and center, overlooking a wide courtyard. If they could find a window now, he might be able to work his way back to that location…

A hoarse scream echoed through the hallways. Teyla took off at a run, and John stumbled after her, turning left into another hallway and then up a staircase. He paused again at the top, breathing hard. Teyla stood just inside the door, listening, and another scream answered their silent question. Whoever was screaming was on this level. John pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against, and the two of them ran out into another hallway, turning left again. Windows off to the side revealed the city spreading out in front of them. John could see the walls of the park, though he recognized it more from the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles than anything else.

They slowed down at the next intersection of hallways and glanced carefully around the corner. Far down the right-hand corridor, John could see an open door. In front of it, two men in uniform lay sprawled on the ground, either dead or unconscious. His heart began pounding faster in trepidation, and he willed the adrenaline rush to give him more strength. He was just about at the end of his rope. He could hear mumbled voices, but he was still too far to make out the words.

Teyla stepped in front of him again, her gaze daring him to argue with her. They had one weapon—Teyla's handgun. John cursed himself for not grabbing another weapon, but then that would have left Lorne and Carson defenseless. One 9-mil would have to do.

Teyla reached the first soldier or guard and grimaced. John frowned at the blood welling up from the man's chest wound. He was, without a doubt, dead. He also had no weapons other than a black wood baton about two feet long. Better than nothing. John leaned over to scoop it up and felt the world sway around him.

He closed his eyes, swallowing desperately at the lurching in his stomach. Teyla had grabbed onto his shirt to keep him from falling over, and she stared at him, looking a little panicked. Neither one of them dared say anything for fear of revealing their position. John wiped his face with his sleeve and breathed in as deeply but quietly as he could until the lightheadedness faded, and the voices at the end of the hall grew louder.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He heard Rodney's shout clearly, every intonation and inflection reaching his battered head. Rodney was alive but in full panic mode. His second attempt at grabbing the baton was more successful, and he lurched to his feet with it gripped tightly in his fist, nodding to Teyla and hoping she believed he was well enough for the moment.

"Stop, please…"

Elizabeth's voice, sounding terrified but alive and uninjured. Teyla crept forward, past the second body in the hallway, John close behind her. He glanced down at the second dead man and started when he saw the face. He'd been in the tent with Kell, standing by his side, delivering most of the punches. There were no visible wounds, but his chest was still and blood pooled underneath him. Shot in the back? He wouldn't put it past Kell.

A nearby door was open, and John could just hear the rustle of clothes as people shifted around. John and Teyla moved toward it—Teyla raising her gun and John lifting his baton.

"Ronon Dex, you've been a pain in my side for too long, but I might just be able to use you now," Kell said. John heard the distinctive thump of a boot against flesh.

"Stop kicking him," Rodney growled.

John licked his lips, forcing his mind to think. Rodney sounded like he was a ways from the door, maybe on the right-hand side. Was Elizabeth next to him? Possibly. Kell was close to the door, somewhere in the center. He cocked his head, listening, and heard someone moaning. It didn't sound like Ronon, though. Someone else?

Kell spoke again, his feet tapping against the floor as he walked. He was saying something about blaming the bombings of the palace and the park on Ronon. His voice grew louder then softer as he moved. John waited until it was soft again then darted a quick glance into the room. Teyla moved at the same time, crossing to the other side.

Kell's back was to them, facing Rodney and Elizabeth, who stood together on one side of the room. Ronon was on the ground and not moving, hopefully just unconscious. Another man was in a chair on the other side of the room, gagged and tied near the wall. It took John a moment to realize it was Nurif, the President.

"In all that confusion at the park today, the guards didn't see Ronon slip into the palace. He killed the President's two guards, then assassinated the President himself."

"You killed the guards," Rodney spat out.

Nurif moaned louder through the gag. Kell's voice had gotten louder again and John braced himself just outside the office, out of sight. The next time he turned, they would have to make their move. He heard the distinct click of a weapon cocking back, and nodded the go-ahead to Teyla.

"It's unfortunate really—"

Teyla lunged through the door with her weapon raised. John waited for one second, then followed with his baton raised. The startled cries of surprise from Elizabeth and Rodney caused Kell to twist around, but not fast enough. Teyla fired, and the commander slumped to the ground.

Teyla moved toward Rodney and Elizabeth, asking if they were okay and immediately setting to work on untying their hands. They nodded, staring at John in speechless shock. He grinned back and waved. He must look quite the sight.

He heard a small grunt and looked down just as Kell, lying face down, raised his head and pointed his gun at the President. John watched the scene unfold in slow motion, his body moving through thick molasses while his mind screamed at him to go faster. He raised his baton and stepped toward Kell, bringing it down on the man's head with as much force as he could muster.

He was a second too late. The gun fired just as John connected with the back of Kell's head, and the President jerked in his chair. Kell dropped back to the ground, unconscious, and Nurif slumped forward in his bindings, his head lolling on his neck. Red stains blossomed over his white shirt.

"John," Elizabeth whispered, or maybe screamed. John spun toward her, then closed his eyes when the room kept spinning and his ears filled with a rush of sound. The baton fell from his hands and he groaned. Every muscle in his body was on the brink of snapping. He drew in a ragged breath, then opened his eyes to look at Rodney and Elizabeth.

"Hey," he said, smiling and feeling a little punch-drunk.

"About time you showed up," Rodney said, the relief evident in his voice.

"We need to get out of here. Teyla, you and Rodney get Ronon," John ordered, grabbing desperately for something to ground him. He leaned against the table breathing heavily, then looked up to see Elizabeth staring at him, her jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded numbly and looked over at the President. "Is Nurif…?"

"Dead," John answered, but he stepped forward anyway and pressed his fingers into the man's neck, searching for a nonexistent pulse. "Let's get out of here while we still can."

Elizabeth nodded and walked with stiff, stilted steps toward the door. Teyla and Rodney already had a hold of Ronon and were dragging him through the door and into the hallway. John took another breath, steadying himself. He scanned the ground for Kell's gun, but it had slid out of sight. Just a little bit longer. All he had to do was hold on a little bit longer.

"Kell shot his own guards. Don't know why—maybe he couldn't risk having any witnesses," Rodney was saying to Teyla. "Dex almost caught him. Did the same thing you guys did only without any weapons, but Kell…it was like he knew he was coming. He was ready for him. Dex never had a chance."

"We also had the advantage of two," Teyla added. She appeared a second later, concern etched on her face. "John—"

"Not now," John cut her off. "I don't know where Kell's weapon went."

"I will find it."

She handed her gun to John and began searching the office. John stepped over Kell's body to the door, and leaned on the frame. Elizabeth stood against the wall with her arms wrapped around her, holding tight. Rodney set Ronon's upper body down on the floor a good ten feet from the office door and looked up at John, words tumbling out of his mouth.

"That Kell is a true megalomaniac—did you know he's been holding the President hostage? He was going to use the war against the Wraith to take over as Sateda's new emperor or something, like Sateda could actually win against the Wraith," he paused, looking John up and down. "Um…are you okay?"

John knew he must look like a walking corpse. "Will be," he answered. He glanced down at Ronon. "We need to wake him up. I don't think we can carry him very—"

He had a split second of warning by the look on Rodney's face, but not enough time to react. He heard the rustle of movement behind at the same time as something slammed into his back. He hit McKay first and sent the scientist sliding across the floor toward Elizabeth. He slammed into the ground next, landing chest first. His broken arm hit next, and then his head bounced against the stone floor, and the flash of white light dancing across his vision stunned him immobile. Teyla's gun flew out of his good hand and across the marbled floor.

"John!" Elizabeth screamed.

A boot landed in his stomach, flipping him over, and he felt his arms and legs flail limply in response. He blinked his eyes at the blurry shape leaning over him, straddling him. One hand reared back, the glint of metal reflecting in the light streaming through the large hallway window.

A knife.

John's brain connected the word with the shape flying toward him and just managed to bring his arms up in time. He caught Kell by the wrist and twisted, kicking out a leg and flipping Kell onto his back. He was almost surprised to find himself on top of Kell, but the older military man reacted quickly, and the two of them rolled across the floor, wrestling with the knife between them.

John's arms shook with exhaustion, the broken one throbbing mercilessly. Something was going to give sooner or later. He kneed Kell in the back and they rolled again until John was on top. He pressed his body against the knife, forcing the blade to turn away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rodney on the ground, Elizabeth leaning over him and helping him back to his feet. Teyla was nowhere in sight. _Where was Teyla?_

"McKay—" he started to yell, then grunted when Kell smacked him on the side of the head, directly over the gunshot wound. His vision grayed and he felt his body collapsing, his strength seeping out of him like water through a sieve. Kell twisted, and John once again found himself flat on his back.

"You're finished, Sheppard," Kell whispered. The image of his face fractured in front of John, three faces floating and speaking and breathing bitter words. John blinked again and the three images coalesced into one.

The next moment was almost surreal. John's hands were still wrapped around Kell's fist, but Kell twisted the knife easily, turning the blade toward him. He felt cold metal slip through his skin and bury itself in his stomach.

The pain hit a second later, a burning agony of molten metal clawing its way through his stomach then spreading out to his chest, arms, legs, and head. He lifted his head and screamed, a hoarse broken sound. The air rushed out of his lungs, catching and gurgling in his throat. He saw Kell smile, and then the pain reached up and pulled a black void over his consciousness.

* * *

"John!"

Ronon jerked awake to the sound of a woman screaming. Melena? He sucked in deep breath and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling looming high above him. Where was he? He blinked through a pulsing throb in his head as the memories rushed back in. The palace—Kell—Sheppard's people.

He'd followed Kell all the way to the palace, watched Kell take out the two guards in the hall—shooting one in the back—and then caught a glimpse of Sheppard's friends, the leader and the scientist, being shoved into the small office. He'd run into the office, hoping to catch Kell by surprise, but the older man had been fast. Ronon had dived toward him but Kell had been ready, almost like he had been expecting him. He'd spun around, slamming a small statuette from the desk into Ronon's head.

That was the last thing he remembered. Where was Kell now? His eyes had slid closed and he forced them open. He was in the hallway of the palace. He turned his head toward the window and saw the scientist and the leader staring in shock at something behind him. The woman seemed unable to move. Neither of them moved—they were frozen.

Ronon turned his head toward the grunting pants next to him just in time to see Kell punch Sheppard in the side of the head. Sheppard's body flopped bonelessly on top of the Satedan commander, and a stream of blood ran out from under the knit cap and down his cheek.

Kell rolled, flipping Sheppard onto his back and Ronon caught the flash of a knife between them. Sheppard was still conscious but just barely. Ronon rolled onto his hands and knees and almost collapsed again at the wave of dizziness that overcame him. Kell had hit him hard. His head pulsed at the movement.

He heard a mumble, soft words being whispered, and he turned his head just in time to see Kell smile then plunge the knife into Sheppard's stomach. Sheppard's eyes flew open in shock and his head came up off the ground. A choking cry of pain erupted out of the man, his face turning red at the agony. Kell jerked the knife again, and Sheppard's eyes rolled up into his head.

"Kell!" Ronon screamed. The stress and anger and fear of the last few days spun into a mass of seething energy inside Ronon's gut, and he dove at Kell. He caught the man in the side, and his momentum ripped him off of Sheppard and flung them both down the hall. They slid across the smooth marble floor and the bloody knife clattered to the ground.

Ronon jumped up first but swayed and dropped to his knees at another surge of vertigo. Kell sat up, swinging both fists like a club toward Ronon's head. Ronon blocked the blow with his arms, but the force of it knocked him back to the ground. He turned toward the knife Kell had dropped and saw it lying discarded a few feet away.

"Stop!" someone screamed. Ronon looked up to see the scientist grab at a black handgun on the ground. He pointed it at Kell, but it shook in his grip. His face was white with terror, but his eyes narrowed as he stared the commander down.

Ronon could see that the scientist would pull the trigger, and Kell must have realized it as well. The older man suddenly pushed away from Ronon and staggered down the hall, zig-zagging as he moved. The scientist closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger, letting off three or four shots before opening his eyes again. Ronon forced himself to sit up and look toward Kell, and he just barely caught sight of the man disappearing unharmed around a corner.

When he turned back, the scientist was staring at him, still holding the weapon up. Their eyes met, and for a brief second Ronon thought the man might start shooting at him, but then he dropped his arm.

"Sheppard," Ronon said. The woman was kneeling by Sheppard's side, a shaking hand hovering over his neck. Sheppard lay completely still next to her. Ronon could see a trickle of blood seeping out from the older wound in his head.

Ronon crawled toward them and pressed his hand into Sheppard's neck. He breathed a sigh of relief at the faint fluttering heartbeat under his fingertips. "He's still alive. Do you have anything we can use for bandages?"

The scientist had dropped down on Sheppard's other side and he suddenly scrambled through his vest, pulling out two white packages. Ronon ripped them open, then lifted Sheppard's jacket and pressed the gauze pads into the oozing wound in the side of his gut. Sheppard groaned in response, twitching at the pressure but not waking up.

"We've got to get him to Beckett," the scientist said, his voice shrill.

"Beckett?" Ronon asked as he wrapped a roll of gauze the woman handed him around Sheppard's waist, securing the bandages in place. The wound was off to the side of his stomach and less deep than he'd first imagined. He didn't think Kell had hit any major organs, but it was bleeding profusely.

"Doctor! He needs a doctor!"

"I know," Ronon answered, as calmly as he could manage. His heart was pounding in his chest now that the immediate threat of Kell was gone. His headache spiked as he sat up, and he pinched the bridge of his nose briefly before looking toward the office.

"Anyone else here?"

"Teyla!" the woman suddenly cried out. She scrambled back into the office.

The scientist shifted on his feet, clearly unsure where he needed to go. He looked from Sheppard to the door of the office then back to Sheppard.

"What's your name?" Ronon asked.

"McKay. Rodney McKay. And that was Elizabeth Weir," he answered, waving toward the woman who'd run back into the office. "Are you…?"

"Ronon Dex."

"We've been looking for you."

"Same," Ronon said. He looked down at Sheppard and grimaced at his pale shivering form. His skin was gray and slick with perspiration, his lips washed of all color. He was breathing, but shallowly in agonizing huffs. The man was going into shock.

"Do you know where your doctor is?"

"Yes," another woman answered, and Ronon looked up to see Weir escorting the woman warrior—Teyla. Where had she come from? Had she been with Sheppard? She must have been. That was the only explanation. Her skin was pale, and a deep gash over her eye dripped blood down the side of her face, but she seemed to grow steadier before Ronon's eyes.

"They should head north of the city," she was saying. She glanced at the leader before continuing. "We have a…ship…waiting to take us home."

"Good enough," Ronon said. He slid his arms under Sheppard's limp form and lifted him up to a sitting position. Sheppard's head flopped forward. Ronon braced himself, then slung Sheppard's body across his shoulders. He felt McKay grab his arm as he stood, and he shifted the dead weight across his back before lurching forward.

"Are you okay?" the leader, Weir, asked.

"I got it."

They moved as quickly as Ronon could manage with his burden. Sheppard's arm swung lifelessly behind him, smacking into his back with every other step. He gave no indication of moving closer to consciousness. By the time they reached the ornately carved staircase, Ronon's muscles were burning from the effort.

He eased himself down the stairs, one step at a time. He did not want to slip or lose his balance. McKay walked a few steps in front of him, and he could hear Weir close behind with Teyla. The wide stairwell turned halfway down toward the front of the palace, and as Ronon looked up, he froze in surprise.

He had never seen the window depicting Sateda's warriors. It was huge—bigger than he had ever imagined—and it glowed red. The eyes of the warriors stared back at him, their expressions embodying every story Ronon had ever heard of valor and courage and fighting for what you believed in.

McKay turned back to see why he had stopped. Behind him, the window grew more vivid in its intensity, like the sun breaking through thick clouds. Ronon heard a humming murmur grow louder and the ground vibrated under his feet. He looked down to see if the ground was moving, then back up at the window. The three warriors stared back at him, growing brighter and brighter. They looked like they were moving, like they'd suddenly come alive, springing fully formed from the stories and history books.

The hum grew into a rumble, and above that a distinctive whine, and then the window exploded into a fireball of shattered glass.

TBC…


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24_

Ronon blinked. One second he was staring at the stained-glass window of Sateda's hero warriors, the next he was staring up at a ceiling. The carved banister of the palace's main stairwell twisted up and away from him, and he could feel soft, thick carpet underneath his back.

"What…what was that?" a soft, scared voice whispered. Ronon turned his head to see Weir crouching down against the wall, looking around in a daze. Teyla was standing a few feet up the stairs, protected entirely from the blast. Shards of glass littered the floor.

Ronon sat up with a groan, and more splinters from the stained-glass window cascaded off his chest. He could feel tiny cuts on his face oozing blood, and his head pounded. He stared at the window in front of him, now a large gaping hole opening up to the front courtyard.

"Explosion," he said, trying to remember exactly what had happened.

McKay lay face down a few feet away from him, his back covered in glass. He shifted, and the broken pieces slid off his coat.

"Astute observation," the scientist muttered as he pressed himself up to his hands and knees. He stayed in that position a moment, shaking his head.

"Rodney, are you okay?" Weir asked, moving away from the wall toward them and looking like she'd managed to avoid most of the blast.

"No, but by some miracle, I seem not to have been impaled by flying colored glass. I might actually survive the next five minutes, although I can't say the same thing about my hearing."

Ronon rolled over and crawled over to Sheppard. His skin was still deathly pale, but he was alive. His chest jerked in rapid pants, and his eyes rolled continuously under half-lidded lids. Blood had soaked through both the knit cap on his head and the bandages on his stomach.

"John?" Teyla asked, kneeling on his other side.

"He's alive," Ronon answered. "Help me with him."

McKay crawled forward, and Ronon moved behind Sheppard's head, lifting the man up by the shoulders. Sheppard was dead weight, sagging limply in Ronon's hands. Teyla and McKay reached out to help, and Ronon braced himself to sling the injured man once again over his shoulders.

A buzzing drone whipped past the window, then another, then another. Ronon flinched and turned toward the sky visible through the gaping hole of the palace wall. He knew that sound. He would recognize that sound anywhere.

"Oh, no," McKay said, staring in the same direction.

"Wraith," Ronon hissed. "They're here." As if to backup his declaration, he heard the sound of distant explosions rumble through the city.

"We've got to get out of here," he said, turning his attention back to Sheppard. He hefted the man upright then ducked, letting Sheppard's body fall across his shoulders. A second later, he'd managed to clamber to his feet.

They descended the rest of the stairs carefully, the broken glass making it that much easier to slip and fall. At the bottom they ran along the hallway to the nearest outside door. Ronon could hear continuous explosions now, mixed in with dying screams. The ground shook and vibrated under his feet, and every so often he'd catch a flash of light—an energy beam from a Hive ship in the sky intent on Sateda's destruction.

"We are so screwed," McKay huffed next to him.

Ronon was breathing too hard to answer, the events of the day catching up to him quickly. It was far from over too. The Wraith were here—ready or not, the war had started. He pointed toward a side door, and the four of them burst out into the palace courtyard. The sounds of explosions and screaming were louder out here, ringing through the cold winter air. Dead soldiers interspersed with the occasional dead Wraith lay spread out across the stone yard.

"Over there!" Teyla yelled and darted ahead of Ronon. McKay and Weir followed her.

Ronon looked up and almost tripped at the sight of one of the off-worlders waving his arm at them. Behind him, Ronon could just see the other one he'd left at the park with Melena, with the bullet wound in his shoulder. His eyes darted around for Melena but she was nowhere to be seen.

The off-worlder—must be the doctor—ran forward and grabbed Weir's other arm. "John?" he asked, throwing a glance over at Ronon.

"Got him," Ronon answered, although he knew he was really asking if he was okay—if he was alive. They could talk about that later. Right now, they had to get out of the open courtyard.

The injured soldier was crouched near the wall under a flimsy overhang, struggling to sit up. Ronon crossed the distance easily and crouched down, rolling Sheppard's body off of his shoulders. The doctor was instantly by his side, helping him ease Sheppard to the ground.

"Bloody hell, what happened?" the man exclaimed.

"Stabbed. Carson, help him," McKay almost screamed.

Carson immediately took over, pushing Ronon gently out of the way as he examined Sheppard. Sheppard's head lolled to the side, oblivious to everything.

"Did you see where Kell went?" Ronon asked.

The soldier shook his head. "We didn't see him at all."

"What are you doing here?"

"The gate is mobbed with people, and the Wraith are now blocking it. We were trying to find a place to hole up in."

"Glad we ran into you then."

"Aye. I was starting to wonder how we'd connect again."

Ronon looked around, wondering which way Kell might have run when Teyla suddenly stiffened next to him. "Wraith," she hissed.

Ronon immediately turned back toward the courtyard just as another Wraith ship zoomed overhead, sweeping in low. It activated its blue-white beam just as a dozen Wraith drones appeared, scanned the area, then began marching toward them.

Ronon and the others were somewhat protected under the overhang against the wall. A waist-high wall jutted out a few feet into the courtyard, giving them something to hide behind. What they really needed, however, were weapons. McKay had Kell's weapon, and Teyla held her own handgun.

The injured soldier leaning against the wall pushed himself up, grunting in pain as he did so.

"No, you don't, Major. Sit back—you're in no shape to fight," the doctor ordered.

"Come on, doc," the major griped, but he collapsed back against the wall. His face had paled at the effort. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a gun, handing it to Ronon.

Ronon shook his head. "Keep it." He peered around the small protective wall into the courtyard. The Wraith were still marching forward, the arrogance of their superiority radiating off of them.

A dozen feet away, Ronon spotted what he needed. Two discarded rifles still gripped in the hands of dead palace guards. He darted forward without a second thought, grabbed the weapons, then scampered back behind their wall. The Wraith were a second too slow in responding, firing their stunners but missing Ronon by a few feet.

"Are you nuts? You could have been killed just now—or at least stunned, and then killed!"

Ronon blocked out McKay's shouting and checked the rifles. He was relieved to see they both had almost a full load of ammunition. The guards must not have been able to put up much of a fight. A nearby explosion rattled the ground, and a cloud of dust blew into the courtyard. Ronon leaned around the wall and fired at the Wraith, hitting one in the face on the first shot. The Wraith stumbled backward and dropped to the ground.

Teyla was suddenly kneeling next to him, and she grabbed the other rifle. She pointed and fired and another Wraith dropped. Two down, ten more to go—assuming the first two stayed down.

"Nice shot," Ronon said, cringing at the sudden clapping of a nearby explosion. That one had been close, maybe the building next to the palace.

The woman flashed a look of surprise at him before smiling and firing another shot into the group of Wraith coming at them. Stunner bolts smashed harmlessly into the ground around them. "Thank you."

Ronon grinned. This woman had skill. He leaned out around the wall and fired two more shots, hitting one of the Wraith drones in the leg and side. The creature stumbled but did not go down. Teyla moved behind him and stood up, leveling the rifle over the short wall and firing a half a dozen shots.

The Wraith drones fired back, continuing their slow forward progress. They made no move to help their fallen comrades or to find cover. Ronon knew there were different types of Wraith—some very intelligent, some less so. He'd have to put this group in the latter category.

He leaned out and fired his rifle. They were down to six, then five, then four. The Wraith were only thirty feet from them and still they kept coming. McKay crawled forward, a handgun in each hand, and began firing at the last four. Miraculously, the scientist managed to hit his targets more often than he missed, and two more Wraith dropped.

Two left. Ronon checked his rifle—three shots remaining. He looked up as Teyla sat down next to him, holding an empty rifle. McKay had also scooted back and was asking the Major if he had any more ammunition, then fumbled as he replaced the empty magazine clip with a full one. Two Wraith left. He could do this.

Ronon rolled out into the open, firing his rifle at one of the drone warriors. Its body stuttered as it caught three blasts directly in the chest and fell backward. He rolled again, narrowly avoiding a stunner shot, and then jumped to his feet. With only one Wraith warrior left and no ammunition, he had only one option.

He charged, running full speed at the creature with a wild scream. The drone warrior seemed to suddenly realize he was all alone, and he froze for a split second. Ronon swung the rifle out in front of him and dove at the Wraith just as it raised its stunner.

He felt the air rush out of his lungs when the Wraith hit the ground. He'd landed on top of the thing and out of the corner of his eye he could see it raising its feeding hand. He spun off of it, grabbing its stunner as he went. The Wraith sat up, but Ronon was already on his feet, jamming the pointed end through the Wraith's chest. He flashed back to his old commanding officer, slumping to the ground on a distant world with a wraith stunner through his back.

With a cry of rage or grief or desperation, Ronon gave the stunner one last shove then let the creature fall back, dead. Adrenaline pumped through him, his arms and legs shaking at the flood of energy trying to break out. He screamed again, yanking the stunner out of the Wraith and smashing it into the ground, over and over again. Behind him, the sky erupted into an echoing concatenation of explosions over the city.

* * *

John could feel hands pressing into him painfully, and he groaned at the assault. His stomach burned in a fireball of pain, the tendrils reaching up into his chest and stealing his breath away. The hands stopped for a brief second, then returned with renewed vigor. An incessant rattling surrounded him, vibrating up through his back and into his head, arm, and knee.

"John, lad. Come on. Open your eyes for me."

The hands moved up to his face, tapping his cheek. John tried to turn away from them, but they followed him with a stinging lance through his head. He whimpered and sucked in a faltering breath.

"Come on, John. Stay with me. We just got you back."

The voice whispered frantically above him. A crack ripped through the sky and the hands froze in their movements. The ground rumbled again, the sound low but intense. John forced open heavy eyelids and stared up into darkness. He drew in another breath, wincing at the pain that ignited and twitched in his hands and chest.

The darkness above slid down, turning into a tac vest, and Carson Beckett's face appeared. He looked down at John with a mixture of relief and worry—a lot of worry. John opened his mouth to say something to him, then felt his body shudder at the agony coursing through him. A flash of panic lit through Carson's face.

Ah, crap—that couldn't be good. John knew he was in bad shape, but if the doctor couldn't even hide it, then it had to be even worse than he had imagined. He reached a hand up and felt Carson grab it.

"Hang on, John."

"…urr…sss…" he slurred.

"What?"

"Hur'sss…"

"I know, lad. Where does it hurt, besides your stomach?"

Everywhere. It hurt _everywhere._ John blinked, writhing against the pain pulsing through him. Carson waited a moment for a response, then tried to smile down at John, but the expression dulled before it reached his eyes.

"…hh-head…" he finally ground out.

Carson nodded, and his hands moved up to his skull, the fingertips pressing through the knit cap. When they hit the side of his head with the gunshot wound, slick with blood, John choked out a cry.

"Sorry, John. We'll get you out of here, son," he soothed.

John nodded slightly, trying to stay as absolutely still as he possibly could. Slowly, the thrashing pain died down, making it a little easier for him to breathe. He turned his head slowly and looked around.

They were outside somewhere under an overhanging canvas roof that flapped in the cold air. Near his feet he could see Lorne leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, his face pale and sickly looking.

"Lorne," he rasped out.

The major opened his eyes and turned toward John, smiling weakly.

"Good to see you again, sir," he answered, although his voice sounded frail.

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine, sir."

"The lot of you are all mad," Carson grumbled next to him. "You, Major, have lost a ton of blood from that gunshot wound, and I can't even begin to imagine what the colonel has suffered through."

"Too much," John muttered, a moment of absolute honesty slipping from his lips.

"Aye, I imagine so," Carson responded, his voice softening with compassion. "You've got a nasty head wound—I'd wager from a gunshot?"

John nodded and closed his eyes at the image of his would-be executioner standing in the shadows in front of him, firing his weapon at John's head.

"You've been stabbed in the stomach, and you're mighty lucky you haven't bled out completely from that. I can feel how swollen your knee is through your trousers and your arm is bandaged pretty heavily. Broken?"

John nodded again. Broken at least once, maybe for a second time now. He writhed again on the ground, trying to find a comfortable position only to ignite fiery pains throughout his battered body.

"Sshhh, be still," Carson whispered.

The report of nearby weapons fire jarred John up, and his vision grayed at the pain that caused. Carson was talking to him frantically, and he felt more than saw Lorne move closer. Another hand rested against his leg, and he opened his eyes to see Elizabeth peering down at him in shock.

She smiled briefly when their eyes met, and then another dozen gunshots rang out around them. They all simultaneously flinched at the sound, and John moaned in agony.

"Wha'ss…hap'nnin…?"

He saw Carson and Lorne look up at each other, exchanging a look. Elizabeth looked behind her at something John couldn't see, and John moved his arms to his side to push himself up.

"No, no, no, you don't," Carson said instantly, placing both his hands on John's chest to keep him from moving.

"The Wraith are here," Lorne finally said. "Sateda's war is starting."

"What?" John breathed out.

"We're in the palace courtyard. Teyla, McKay, and Ronon Dex are fighting off about a dozen Wraith drones that a dart just dropped in."

"Have to…help them…"

"They're holding their own, sir," Lorne said before Carson could tell John he would be doing no such thing.

There was brief lull in the fire fight, then the hoarse scream of what sounded like a wild animal.

"What's he doing? He's insane!" McKay's voice screeched. The others turned to look at whatever McKay was talking about. John turned his head as well, but the world wavered, sliding across his vision in jilting, bouncing dizziness. He groaned at the sensation, and felt Carson's hand press gently into the side of his face.

"He did it!" McKay gasped. There was a perceptible intake of breath and a distant clapping drum, the sound of something heavy being pounded against a hard surface. "And now he's lost it completely."

"Rodney," Teyla hissed, shushing him.

The pounding stopped, and John let his eyes slide closed for a moment. The dizziness had faded somewhat, but not completely. The ground beneath him lurched, but he couldn't tell if it was in his own mind or caused by the string of explosions echoing around him as the Wraith pummeled the city.

"You've got to get out of here before more Wraith show up."

John opened his eyes at the sound of Ronon's voice. He saw Teyla step up and rest a hand on the man's arm.

"Thank you, for everything you've done for us."

Ronon nodded. "You said you had a ship north of the city?"

"Yes, that's right," Elizabeth answered.

"The city has a network of underground tunnels, escape routes leading out into the country." He pointed toward the corner of the courtyard, just to the side of the palace. "There's a door there. It will take you down to a narrow passage that will lead to a wider junction. Take the passage heading north and it should lead you straight out of the city. Hopefully that will get you close enough to your ship."

Ship? John's mind reeled as he tried to follow the conversation. What were they talking about?

"Come with us," Carson said.

"Can't," Ronon answered, shaking his head. "The woman I was with, Melena. Is she…where did she…?"

"She was safe the last time we saw her," Carson answered. "She asked us to tell you she going to the hospital to help with the injured."

Ronon's faced creased in pain for a split second then dropped away, replaced with a mask John knew only too well. Ronon was a soldier—he would do whatever it took to keep fighting and survive, regardless of the personal cost. Ronon stepped away, preparing to leave.

"Ronon," John rasped out. The Satedan froze, looking surprised to see Sheppard conscious and coherent. He hesitated a moment, then moved forward and kneeled next to him.

John raised a hand up, squeezing weakly against Ronon's stronger grasp. "Thank you, for everything. Tell Melena…"

"I will, Sheppard."

A thousand words flooded through his mind, yet none seemed willing to move past his lips. His chest felt suddenly heavy with a pain unrelated to any of his injuries as he stared up at the man who had given up everything—_everything—_to save his life. John would have offered him and Melena sanctuary in Atlantis right then and there, but he knew from the look in Ronon's eyes that he wouldn't accept it. He'd send Melena with them if he could, but he wouldn't leave himself. He'd stay and fight for Sateda in a war he had known was doomed from the start.

"Take care of yourself," John finally managed to get out. Ronon nodded, giving John's hand one final squeeze before standing up, waving at the others, and disappearing at a run through the courtyard and out into the city.

"We should move now, while we have the chance," Lorne grunted, forcing himself to sit up. His voice spurred everyone else into motion and John suddenly felt arms sliding under his back and sitting him up.

"Slowly now," Carson said, but John's world faded with a buzzing roar at the movement. A piercing, burning pain shot through his stomach.

"We've got you, lad," Carson was saying through the din of noise in John's ears. "Rodney, take the other side. We'll have to carry him. Elizabeth and Teyla, if you can help the Major…"

"I'm okay, doc," Lorne grunted out.

John opened his eyes to see Elizabeth helping Lorne to his feet, pressing a fresh bandage into the man's shoulder wound. Lorne swayed on his feet but didn't immediately collapse.

"Quickly," Teyla said. "The Wraith are getting closer."

Carson and Rodney were kneeling on either side of him, their arms linked behind his back and under his legs. At some unseen signal between the two of them, they lifted and John arched back with a choking cry as pain swept through him.

"Breathe, John. Breathe," Carson urged.

It took a moment, but John managed to force his lungs to expand and suck in much needed oxygen. A moment later, they were moving across the courtyard and even though the two men carrying him were trying to be careful, each stepped jarred his body. His arm throbbed in time with his pounding heart, and his leg swung stiffly from his swollen knee under Carson's and Rodney's arms. Nausea twisted with the fire in his gut and he couldn't help the whimpers of pain that kept breaking through his tightly clenched jaw. On top of it all, pain swam and jerked and hammered through his skull. His chin fell forward onto his chest and trails of blood and sweat dripped down his face.

An explosion in the center of the palace rocked the courtyard, throwing dust and debris in all directions, and the group covered the last few feet to the underground passage at a run. John bounced in his friends' arms and managed to hold onto consciousness just long enough to see Teyla kick in the door leading to their escape route. All at once, his vision dimmed and he gave in to the beckoning oblivion.

TBC…


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25_

Carson Beckett knew the exact moment John lost consciousness again, not that he could blame the man. Teyla kicked in the door Ronon had pointed out to them, revealing a narrow staircase disappearing into inky darkness, and John went limp in his and Rodney's hands. It happened so quickly that he barely had time to react and he stutter-stepped as he tightened his grip on the injured man.

A flash of light in the corner of his eye was followed by an ear-splitting explosion. Carson felt the heat of the blast as the Wraith Hive fired at the palace and he cringed, waiting for the lethal debris to hit him next. It didn't hit him, but it came dangerously close, pelting against the nearby walls and smaller buildings adjacent to the palace. Teyla had pulled out a flashlight and was beckoning them forward, frantically.

There was no way he and Rodney could fit side by side down the narrow stairwell with John in between them. Major Lorne stumbled forward, still supported by Elizabeth, and the two of them barely fit shoulder-to-shoulder. He looked at Rodney and saw that he had recognized the same problem.

"I'll take him," Carson said, before Rodney could say anything. "Walk in front of me in case I slip. You can stop us from barreling into Major Lorne and Elizabeth."

"Oh, yeah, okay," Rodney said in return, wholly unconvinced of his ability to stop anyone from falling anywhere. John suddenly grew heavier in Carson's arms, though, as Rodney shifted his burden onto the doctor.

Carson grunted in an effort to get a better grip on John's dead weight then nodded at Rodney. He may be a doctor, but that didn't mean he wasn't strong. Years of growing up in some of the rougher neighborhoods of Glasgow had endowed him with considerable upper body strength. It helped, too, that his brother immediately older than him had loved boxing, and Carson, through sheer necessity as his brother's most obvious target, had not been too bad at the sport himself.

"Ready?" Rodney asked.

"Aye. Lead the way."

The stairs took an eternity to descend, and then the bottom opened up into a relatively wide passageway. The lights were all out in this section, but Teyla, Rodney, and Lorne's flashlights provided enough illumination to see where they were going. Rodney moved back to Carson's side, taking half of John's weight again.

The underground tunnel was eerily quiet after the succession of explosions on Sateda's surface. Only the occasional rumbling quake gave any indication of the destruction the Wraith were reaping on the surface. Carson's heart twisted in his chest at the thought of all the people he'd met over the last week, and then again at all the ones he hadn't and never would—the thousands of lives spread out over every nook and cranny of this world.

He thought all at once of Perna and the Hoffans, lost to a desperate hope that they could beat the Wraith just like Sateda, although in entirely different manners. He wondered if the two people had ever met, ever traded, ever sat around a table exchanging ideas, hopes, and dreams of one day living free of the Wraith.

The walls shook and the faint rumbling of a blast directly above their heads rained dust from the ceiling down on top of them. Carson glanced at the injured man in his arms, his ghostly white complexion just barely visible in the dim light of the flashlights. Dust and dirt clung to John's face, mixing with sweat and blood.

A light up ahead flickered for a moment then held steady, and they stepped out into a larger circular room. Besides the tunnel from which they had just emerged, there were three more passageways branching out from the room.

"This must be the junction Ronon spoke of," Teyla said, glancing around.

"Which way is north?" asked Elizabeth.

Lorne waved his arm at the one immediately to their right and grunted, "That way." The three of them began walking again but stopped at the sound of Carson's voice.

"Hold up a minute"

He caught Rodney's eye then pointed to the closest wall with a jerk of his head, and they side-stepped over to it. Gently as they could, they lowered John to the ground. The lighting in the room was brighter, and John looked even worse than Carson had imagined.

"I need to check on him," Carson said.

"The Wraith…" Rodney began but Carson cut him off.

"I know—this won't take long."

He pulled up John's shirt and scowled at the bandages over his stomach. They were soaked through with blood, and rivulets of red dripped over the pale skin. His stomach rose and fell rapidly in time with his chest, barely gasping in enough oxygen to keep his body going.

"I need more bandages," he called out. He heard the others rustling through their pockets, but all of their bandages had already been used. They had nothing.

Carson pressed his fingers against John's neck, counting the heartbeats. It was too fast—way too fast. He knew his pressure could not be good either, and he wondered if they shouldn't have tried to go to the city hospital first.

An explosion reverberated overhead, answering his silent question and he shook his head. Their best bet for survival was the jumper. From there, they could only hope and pray they made it to the stargate unscathed. If the stargate wasn't being blocked by the Wraith, he suddenly thought. He shook that thought off and concentrated on John's vital signs.

His face was covered in a sheen of perspiration, the skin cold and clammy to the touch. Carson turned John's head to get a better look at the gunshot wound then changed his mind. The knit cap was soaked through with blood, but it didn't appear to be hemorrhaging that heavily. A small trickle of fresh blood dripped past his ear. Carson didn't dare remove the hat. That could rip away whatever clots had formed and make the bleeding even worse. Better to wait until he had some supplies and equipment to care for the man.

John groaned, his eyes fluttering open. Carson grabbed his face with both hands to catch his attention and frowned at the dazed and glassy look in the other man's eyes. John was almost conscious, but not quite. One of his legs kicked out, hitting the wall, and he whimpered again.

"John, listen to me. Try not to move. You've been badly injured."

John sucked in a deep breath, letting the air out slowly through colorless lips in a drawn-out moan. He nodded slightly and his eyes lost some of their confusion. Carson patted him on the shoulder, urging him to relax and take things slowly as his body remembered all the damage it had suffered in the last week.

Despite the silence drifting through the underground tunnels, no one heard the soft patter of footsteps until it was too late. Lorne was on the ground, his back against the wall, and Elizabeth was crouched down next to him, still holding his bloodied bandage in place. Carson was crawling over to check on the major when he heard a surprised yelp and then a sickening crunch.

Elizabeth screamed, and Carson turned around to see Teyla dropping to the ground. He dove forward, just barely managing to cradle her head in his hands before it hit the ground. Beyond her, a man stepped out of the shadows of a tunnel, his face pulled back in a sneer. Light gleamed off his bald head.

"Kell," Rodney stuttered, still crouched next to Sheppard.

Kell's dark eyes roved wildly back and forth, staring at all six of them with a mixture of hatred and feral desperation. For a moment, no one moved and they stared at each other, locked in a precarious balance. Teyla lay closest to the deranged man, although she was unconscious. Carson could already see the welt blossoming on her forehead just above her eye.

He glanced behind him to see Lorne struggling to stand up and John struggling to sit. Elizabeth managed to stop the major from moving too much, but Rodney reached behind John and lifted him up, sliding him over to lean against the wall. John's face turned an almost yellowish gray and he began panting, a balled up fist pressed into the knife wound in his stomach.

"I had it!" Kell screamed, and Carson jerked around to face him.

"I had it in my hands, so close, and then you…you took it away. Everything—took it all away. The Wraith are up there right now. I don't even know if my family got off-world…my wife…damn woman's been fighting me all week on leaving…wouldn't pack. Nurif would have done anything I said…"

Carson held his breath, trying to follow the man's ramblings. He could make no sense of the words as a coherent whole, and he wondered if Kell even realized he was speaking out loud. Only half of his thoughts seemed to be making it out of his mouth. Teyla stirred in the doctor's hands and he willed her to stay still.

"Ship…you have a ship. I know you do. Heard you talking…not as secretive as you thought you were…north, need to go north. The Wraith are in the city…if I hide…north. Take your ship…I can escape. I had everything in place—a way out until we defeated the Wraith, and then I would come back. I would lead Sateda. I would be its greatest hero…not ready…you did this…"

Half of Kell's words seemed to be part of some internal monologue, the other half directed at them. He twisted around, staring wildly at the passageways as if he was unsure of which direction to go in, and Carson noticed the stick in his hand. It looked like the broken leg of a chair, or maybe a small table. He glanced down at the purple bruise spreading over Teyla forehead and glowered, and just barely managed to rein in the rant building on the tip of his tongue.

"I'll kill you…all of you…I'll get the ship…north…" Kell mumbled, then suddenly stumbled away, down the passageway that would take him north of the city.

"The man has totally lost it," Rodney mumbled, then cried out in surprise.

John had grabbed onto Rodney's shoulder, using it to heft himself up to his feet. He wavered, staggering back into a wall before catching his balance, then lurched forward toward the north tunnel.

"Sheppard," Rodney called out, but John was intent on one thing only. Carson had seen the determination in John's eyes and knew the only thing that would stop him would be his own body failing, possibly permanently.

"Dammit," he cursed. Teyla opened her eyes and struggled to sit up.

"He took my gun," Rodney said, looking down at his empty holster in surprise.

Carson did the only thing he could think of. With one last, quick glance at everyone else, he jumped to his feet and took off down the tunnel at run. It was wide and well-lit, whatever generators powering these lights still in one piece on the surface. It twisted and curved in front of him, heading generally north but not in a straight enough line for him to see how far ahead John and Kell were.

He ran, expecting to come across John's body at any moment. There was no way the man should be able to run, but Carson knew adrenaline could do strange things—give super-human strength and energy where it shouldn't be possible.

"Kell!"

John's voice rang out down the tunnel, echoing back toward Carson. The doctor wondered if the others had heard it as well. It sounded much stronger than he had imagined, and he felt a brief flash of hope that John might actually survive another encounter with the Satedan commander.

He kept going, his feet pounding against the smooth floor underneath him. They would hear him coming long before he actually arrived, either by his footsteps or his heaving breaths.

"Everything was worked out. Everything was lined up," Kell's voice pierced the silence, sounding dangerously close and Carson slowed down.

"All my plans…"

"For what? Power? Prestige?" John's voice snarled.

"Years—I worked toward this for years, biting my tongue, moving up the ranks. Smiling and laughing with that idiot Nurif until I was in his good graces. A few more weeks—days even—and everything would have been set."

"And how many people would have died in the meantime, Kell? How many people have died already because of you?"

Carson had stopped, but he still couldn't see them. He crept forward, wary of distracting John or inciting Kell to do something more than just rant and rave. The tunnel curved slightly, and he pressed his back against the wall, sliding forward.

"I would have had everything—more riches than I could have imagined, and not just here. A whole connection of worlds—a confederation."

Carson could just make out John's back. He was trembling visibly, but the gun he'd grabbed from Rodney was trained accurately enough on Kell to inflict serious damage. Kell's eyes flickered to Carson as he came into view, then focused again on the colonel.

"Money?" John spat. "This was about money?"

"John," Carson whispered, not wanting to startle the man but not wanting him to think some other enemy was sneaking up behind him.

John made no reply, or gave any indication, really, that he'd heard Carson at all. He stared Kell down, his body weak but his eyes blazing with intensity and power.

Kell's face suddenly hardened, and the deranged look in his eyes receded. Whatever break in sanity he seemed to have suffered had only been temporary. The desperate, wild, ranting man transformed in front of Carson's eyes back into the cold-hearted, brutal Satedan commander.

"Money?" he barked, almost laughing. "Oh, no, Sheppard. Not just money. All the power and wealth in Sateda and a half dozen other worlds. We could have beat the Wraith, but we would have barely survived ourselves. I would have been a hero—leading Sateda not just to a victory against the Wraith, but beyond that. Sateda would have been great again—a dominating force in the universe."

"You really are insane," John mumbled. The gun was shaking badly in his hand, and Carson realized Kell was biding his time, waiting for John to collapse completely before…well, he wasn't sure then. To continue north to try and find the jumper, or maybe to jump John.

"I should have killed you myself," Kell hissed.

"You've had plenty of opportunities," John answered, and Carson thought he detected a slight quaver, but it could have been just his imagination.

Kell stepped forward, grinning ferociously. He had both hands opened and out to his side, but he was tense, ready to pounce the second John blinked. Carson stepped forward, wondering what he should do. He was no match for Kell, but maybe he and John together would be enough to fight the man off. At the very least, he could hold John's hands steady so the colonel could pull the trigger.

There was a soft scraping sound behind Kell, then a shaft of light that broke through the ceiling and illuminated a small square. It flickered, alternating between dim and bright, and Carson imagined the world above the square being swept with burning fires.

And then a shadow—a figure dropping silently into the tunnel. When it stood up, it grinned, shaking long white hair out of its face. Carson would have screamed had there been any air in his lungs. Instead he heard himself croak something unintelligible and stepped back.

Kell smiled wider, unaware of the Wraith behind him, and moved another foot closer to John. Sweat dripped down John's face in streams, and Carson could see him blinking his eyes in a desperate attempt to stay focused. The Wraith was less than ten feet away. Did John not see it?

The colonel's hands suddenly stilled, bringing the weapon up with dead accurate aim and pointed directly at Kell's head. Kell froze, the smile dropping from his face. Carson could almost see the thoughts turning over in his mind, recalculating his chances of reaching John before John pulled the trigger.

"John," Carson finally breathed out as the Wraith lunged toward Kell with its feeding hand outstretched.

John jerked his arms to the side and fired, and the bullets tore into the Wraith. Its body jerked and contorted against the weapons fire, and John stepped forward slowly, pulling the trigger continuously until he was standing right over it.

Carson jumped forward, toward John. At the same time, Kell lurched toward him, his face white with surprise and fear. Carson braced himself for a fight, raising his fists into a boxer's stance, but Kell hardly looked at the doctor. With one last glance at the Wraith's open feeding hand, he ran down the tunnel back toward the city.

Carson watched him disappear then moved to John's side. The man was breathing heavily, the weapon still pointed at the Wraith's chest. He had stopped pulling the trigger, but Carson had heard the clicks of the empty cartridge. He had no ammunition left, or he might still be firing at the Wraith.

"John," Carson said quietly.

John looked up, startled, and dropped his arms to his side. The gun slid from suddenly lax fingers and clattered to the floor, and he began listing to the side. Carson reached out, grabbing him and pulling him away from the Wraith's body.

"Can't believe he thought Sateda would win against the Wraith, that he would come back as some hero," John muttered, looking down the hall where Kell had disappeared. "Someone should stop him—go after him. Tell people what he did…what he might still do."

"John," Carson interrupted, feeling John's muscles tense underneath his hands.

John pulled away from the doctor and staggered after Kell for three or four steps before he veered off balance and fell into the wall.

Carson followed, placing himself directly in front of John. "John, let him go," he said. Pleaded.

He heard the soft thud of another Wraith dropping into the tunnel and felt his blood run cold at the sight. They were weaponless, and John was barely standing. Carson pulled John closer to him, and they both backed up.

Weapons fire burst from behind them, and the Wraith flew backward, landing on its predecessor. Carson flinched at the sound then gasped in relief at Teyla's appearance. She fired three more shots, ensuring it was dead before turning to John and Carson. Behind her, Rodney, Elizabeth and Lorne appeared.

"We saw Kell," Rodney panted. "He just ran past us, like we weren't even there. Are you guys okay? What the hell were you thinking, Sheppard?"

Carson looked back at John just in time to see the man sway. He jumped forward catching him under the arms before he fell. John groaned and managed to stay on his feet, but he leaned heavily on Carson. His hand was once again balled up and pressing urgently into his stomach.

"We must leave now," Teyla said. "It will not be long before the Wraith fill these tunnels."

Rodney stepped forward and threw John's other arm over his shoulder. Between the two of them, they managed to keep John upright and walking. Teyla set a fast pace, pushing everyone to move through the tunnel. The Hive above eventually hit the generator powering the lights, plunging the passageway into darkness, but they encountered no more Wraith.

An endless amount of time later, the tunnel began to slope upward, and natural light filtered in. Carson was momentarily consumed with the fear that they would step out of the corridor into an army of Wraith warriors, but instead they emerged out of a tree-covered hillside and into the middle of a wooded lot. The sounds of weapons fire and explosions were still there, but distant and far away.

They rounded the hillside and found themselves staring across empty farm fields to the burning capital. Carson's eyes roamed over the city skyline, looking for buildings and places he couldn't actually hope to identify. And yet…

One building stood out, tall and square and white. The hospital. How many people had run there, looking for help? For safety? Had the Wraith cleaned it out yet? The others had moved away, unable to watch the city destroyed, but Carson couldn't tear his eyes away.

Nor could John. He realized the colonel was still standing next to him, hardly moving. Hardly breathing. Even as they watched, a beam of light rained out of the sky and struck the corner of the hospital building. It exploded in a ball of fire, and when the smoke finally cleared, Carson could see the dark scar of crumbling stone covering half of the hospital.

Where was General Tremek? He'd been seriously injured but recovering. He would have eventually made a full recovery. And the other nurses and doctors—were they still there?

"That was the hospital, wasn't it?" John asked, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah," Carson answered, just as quietly.

"I tried to tell them," John said. "Tried to warn them…"

Carson reached out a hand and laid it on John's shoulder. The man was shaking again, the last of his adrenaline fading fast. Behind him, he could hear Lorne calling for the jumper.

"I know, John, but they wanted to fight, and nothing we said would have changed their minds."

John nodded. He knew it, and Carson knew it, but it didn't make it any easier watching their allies—their friends—be destroyed.

"Melena went back to the hospital," John said. "Do you think she was…?" He breathed in sharply, not finishing the sentence.

"Ronon would have gone straight there after he left us," Carson offered. "I'm sure he got her away from the hospital to somewhere safe."

John said nothing, and they stood there in silence a moment. The whoosh of the jumper passing overhead jarred them out of their mesmerized stare, and Carson turned around to see the small ship uncloak. Lorne walked unsteadily up the lowered ramp and collapsed onto the bench, but Teyla, Rodney, and Elizabeth turned back toward John and Carson.

"Come on, lad. Let's get in the jumper before the Wraith spot us out here."

He tugged on John's arm in vain. John continued to stare at the city, the glow of the distant fires reflecting in his eyes. His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching. His expression was unfathomable, a mask barely containing a roar of emotion that Carson could almost reach out and touch.

He pulled on John's arm again, prepared to argue or wrestle—whatever it took to get the man in the jumper and lying down so he could begin to treat his myriad injuries. The battle was far from over for John. His injuries were extensive and Carson wouldn't really know the full extent of them until he got him back to Atlantis and under the scanner.

"John?" Carson begged.

John gave in instantly, his legs buckling and his head falling forward. The last of his energy drained out of him and he collapsed like a rag doll in Carson's outstretched arms.

* * *

The hospital was completely overrun. Ronon pushed his way through the herds of people all clamoring for help, blocking out the screams of pain and anguish. The off-worlders had told him that Melena had come here, and when he stopped to think about it, there was no doubt in his mind that she'd be anywhere else. Of course she was here.

He worked his way up to the third floor—her usual duty station. The hallways were filled with doctors and nurses; some he recognized, some he didn't.

"Melena!" he screamed. Hospitals were usually quiet, but no one reacted to his cry. No one heard him above the din of panic and pain. "Melena!"

A small woman appeared at the end of the hall, crossing from one room into another.

"Melena!"

Either the woman hadn't heard him, or she wasn't Melena. Ronon hadn't gotten a good look at her. She'd been the right size, had the right hair, and was wearing a white medical coat. Ronon continued to rush down the hall, not intentionally trying to push people out of his way, but not being gentle about moving around them either. He reached the end of the corridor and burst through the doors, ignoring the "Medical Personnel Only" sign.

Melena stood at one end of the ward, studying a chart.

"Melena," he said. He'd intended to scream it, to run at her with a whoop of joy at seeing her alive, but his voice caught in his throat and his chest constricted. She was still alive, they were both still alive, but for how much longer?

She looked up, pausing in shock before throwing the chart on the bed and sprinting across the room. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Ronon stood there, holding her and feeling her shaking sobs. He wanted to stay in that moment forever, to always have her safe in his arms, but his mind reeled with the reality of their situation and the continuous explosions thundering through the city.

"Where are the others? The off-worlders?" Melena had pulled back from him and stared into his face, waiting for his answer.

"Gone—they had a ship. They escaped."

"All of them?"

"Yeah, all of them." And they'd been willing to take Ronon as well. He'd seen it in Sheppard's face before he left them and ran to the hospital. Sheppard would have asked him, and he would have said no, but maybe if he could find them again, they could take Melena…they could get her to safety…

"Come on, there's still a chance I can get us out of here. I can get us to the gate. Even if I can't, I know where to hide."

Half-formed plans tumbled in and out of his mind as he turned around and pulled Melena to the door. Half the plans involved finding the off-worlders and begging them to take Melena with them. If he could find them. If they hadn't left already.

Melena pulled back from his grasp, planting her feet, and he turned around in surprise.

"Ronon!" She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she turned toward the bed at the far end of the room. A little girl lay unconscious, her face pale and tear-streaked.

"What about her? Her parents are both dead."

They didn't have time for this. They couldn't save everyone. Ronon walked over to the bed and scooped the little girl up in his arms, then walked back to the door. He turned around, expecting Melena to be right behind him and saw she hadn't moved. She stood perfectly framed in a large window, the capital city burning behind her.

"Come here. Come on!" he urged her, but he couldn't grab her—not with the little girl in his arms.

"Ronon, wait! What about all these people?"

Nurses, doctors, and patients scrambled around him. He thought of all the people in the hallways begging for help, and the masses out on the streets fighting, running, hiding—dying.

"They're all dead," he whispered.

Melena shook her head, tears running down her face. "I can't, Ronon. I can't go."

Behind her, a beam of blue-white light rained down from the sky, striking a nearby building. Ronon opened his mouth to scream at her, to beg, demand, order, grovel—whatever it took to get Melena to come with him—but the beam of light behind her was growing brighter. Growing closer.

"Melena!"

The beam hit the hospital. A thundering crack ripped through Ronon's head as a ball of fire exploded inward, shattering through the window. He saw Melena staring back at him in shock for one last, long second, and then the explosion consumed her and the blast wave threw Ronon and the handful of other people still standing into the far wall.

TBC…


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26_

John jerked awake, the dark, unfamiliar ceiling jumpstarting his heart rate into a frenzy. He tried to sit up but his body gave one all-consuming shudder then lay immobile. Pain wracked through him, and he reacted instinctively with a hoarse, broken cry.

"Sheppard?"

He heard the groggy voice near his head but couldn't quite place it. He turned his head—or tried to—but to no avail. He whimpered again, more out of helplessness than anything else.

"Carson, get over here," the voice was saying and he finally connected it to a face—Rodney. He felt a cool hand wrap around his wrist and he forced open eyelids that had slid shut.

"What is it? I thought you were finally getting some rest."

"Sheppard's awake."

Rodney moved, leaving behind him the cold imprint of his fingers on his arm. John's eyes had drifted closed again, and he blinked at the sound of people moving around him.

"John?"

Carson's face appeared above him, and the dark ceiling looked a little brighter than it had. John watched it blur in and out of focus for a moment before he closed his eyes. Nausea stirred in his stomach, the pressure of it haunting the bottom of his throat. He gulped, swallowing back the sensation.

"Breathe, John, as deeply as you can. We can't have you getting sick right now."

A soft flow of cool air brushed the skin around his lips, and breathing became easier. His chest relaxed and his twisting stomach settled. He risked opening his eyes again, and Carson smiled down at him, patting him on the shoulder.

"There you go."

The words floated nonsensically around him, and John struggled to make sense of what was going on. He remembered Sateda, Ronon and Melena, Kell, the Wraith. They'd run through the city's underground tunnels and emerged somewhere far north, only to turn back and see the capital in flames.

"Where…?" he breathed out.

"We're in a jumper, over Sateda," Carson answered.

"Wha…"

"The Wraith are blocking the gate. They keep dialing it before we get a chance to," Rodney's voice sounded near his feet. John looked down to see the physicist standing at the rear of the jumper, his face haggard with exhaustion. "We can't get through yet, so you need to just…you have to hang on."

"How long…since…in jumper?" John croaked out, noticing for the first time the oxygen mask strapped to his face.

"How long have we been in the jumper?" At John's nod, Carson glanced at his watch. "Almost a day and a half now. You've been unconscious for most of that."

John glanced around, the muscles in his neck finally responding to his mental commands. Behind Carson he could see Lorne lying on the other bench, looking waxen and sickly, dark smears under his otherwise relaxed face. They were in one of the retrofitted jumpers, the ones Zelenka had been modifying. Both benches had been pulled away from the jumper walls and flattened—turning the bench chairs into beds and leaving just enough space between the two of them for people to walk.

"Lorne?"

"He's doing alright, Colonel," Carson answered. "He lost a lot of blood, but he's holding steady for now. You, on the other hand, have scared more years off of my life than I care to admit. Thank God I had my staff stock this jumper with more than enough medical supplies before it came here."

John rolled his heavy head back to look up at Carson and blinked in confusion. He breathed heavily through the mask, dragging in desperate oxygen. The agonizing aches and pains of the last week were muted but still there, sharp under the surface if he moved too much.

"How bad?" he asked, more an excuse to keep talking and stay awake than because he actually wanted to hear the information.

Carson sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure how you're still alive. That gunshot wound to your head…" he shook his head before continuing. "A centimeter or two over, and we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. As it stands, you've suffered a massive concussion at the very least. I won't know if there's any more damage than that until I can get you back to Atlantis and under a scanner. Your arm is broken, your knee is sprained, and I'd guess you have at least two, maybe three, cracked ribs. Most worrisome, other than the head trauma, is the stab wound to your stomach."

John's eyes flew open at that and memories of Kell's murderous face loomed over him. He could almost smell the man's foul breath on his skin as he pushed the glinting knife toward his gut.

"John? Are you listening?"

"Huh?" John stuttered. He forced himself to look at Carson and Rodney, both now leaning over him in concern. "Liss'ning," he finally mumbled.

"The stab wound wasn't as deep as I'd feared, but it caused quite a bit of bleeding. I've stitched it up as best I can in the back of a jumper, and we've got two IVs running, but…you've got a fever brewing, lad. I'm afraid you might now be fighting off an infection."

"Teyla, Elizabeth?"

"Are you paying any attention, Sheppard? You almost died. You might still—"

"Hush, Rodney," Carson said. He pressed a hand against John's forehead, wiping away the drops of sweat beading on his forehead. "They're fine, son. They're both asleep right now. As you should be."

"…okay…"

"No, not okay, Sheppard," Rodney snapped, ignoring Carson. His waving arms were barely visible in the low light of the jumper. "He's saying you have to rest but you also have to fight, you have to stay alive until we can get through the gate."

"Sateda? How…" John asked, his eyes drifting closed despite his best efforts.

He missed the look Carson and Rodney gave each other, but there was a long pause that almost persuaded John to open his eyes again. Rodney finally answered, the horror of what was happening on the surface palpable in his tone.

"Not good. They're…they're destroying everything."

John knew they would. He had known it from the very first moment Tremek had told him about their great plan. Sateda's military was good, but they didn't have the numbers or the technology to combat the Wraith—not like this, on their home planet. The Hive ship would hover in the atmosphere, beyond reach for as long as it took to crush Sateda into dust.

He felt a shudder run through his body, the pain bright and raw as it moved closer to the surface. His chest tightened, choking off the oxygen trying to reach his lungs. He could feel a blanket being pushed down to his waist, then fingers pushing and pulling at his skin. A suffocating agony lit up in his stomach, around the stab wound, and he moaned. Minutes passed before Carson finished checking him over, and then a sharp cold sting raced up his arm.

"That should take the edge off for now, John. Rest, while you can. You're going to need all of your strength."

He felt Carson pull the blanket back up to his chest and tuck it in, then wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm. The IVs pinched his skin, and the oxygen mask cut into his cheeks. He could hear the faint hiss of air running to his mouth and nose and the rustle of Carson's jacket as the doctor moved around. Rodney shifted from foot to foot, breathing heavily through his nose.

The painkillers ran through John's veins, pulling a heavy fuzzy lethargy over his already exhausted body. He sagged into the bench, letting his last tenuous grip on consciousness go. Beyond the jumper's wall, through the black void of space to the surface of the planet below, John could almost—_almost_—hear the screaming death throes of Sateda itself.

* * *

Sateda burned. Rodney watched it all from the jumper's front window almost to the point of obsession. He could not tear his eyes away. Lieutenant Swanson had moved the cloaked jumper well away from the planet and the Wraith Hive ship, but they had to stay close enough to monitor the gate, to know when it would be safe to return home.

That was his excuse. He knew it was an excuse, but he used it anyway. He was monitoring the gate so they'd be ready to get home the very second they were able to. Rodney was watching the gate.

He was watching Sateda die.

The Hive ship's bombardment of the planet was relentless, worse even than the onslaught of darts against Atlantis' shields so many months before. The night side of the planet was both horrifying and mesmerizing—the fires glowed in deep orange pinpricks against the blackness of space. He could always tell when the planet revolved enough to reveal the capital city. It was the largest of the burning fires, and every time it passed, the fires had spread, like molten lava from an erupting volcano.

"Rodney?"

Rodney glanced over his shoulder at Elizabeth but didn't say anything. He returned his attention back to the burning planet, his eyes riveted. The capital would be coming up again soon, sometime within the next few minutes. Despite the brutal fires, the gate was still there, still active.

"Anything new?"

Rodney shook his head, half wondering what she was expecting to hear. They'd been sitting up in their cloaked jumper for over two days now, and nothing had changed. Or maybe she wasn't actually asking him about Sateda or the Wraith or the gate. Maybe she was just making small talk—a lead-in question before she urged him, again, to get some rest, to take a break from his "monitoring," to stop watching Sateda's destruction.

"You've been up here for hours. You should get some rest. I'm sure either Lieutenant Swanson or Sergeant Ross would be willing to monitor things up here for awhile."

He almost smiled, but he knew Elizabeth was watching him closely, and she might think he was losing it. He'd been right, though. He'd guessed her game. Well, two people could play at this…whatever this was.

God, he was so tired.

"I'm fine," he said, then winced at how much he sounded like Colonel Sheppard. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed tired eyes. Even when he wasn't looking at Sateda, he could still see it. It was etched into his memory.

Elizabeth sat next to him in silence for a moment. They'd been good, actually, about giving him his space. They were cramped in the jumper—the five of them who'd been on Sateda, including Lorne and Sheppard sprawled out on the benches, and then Swanson and Ross, who'd been holed up in the jumper for days waiting for them to arrive. They'd rotated sitting in the chairs in the front part of the jumper, alternated sleeping on the floor near the back hatch, and left Rodney to stare at the planet with only the occasional urge to lay down for a few hours.

"How are Lorne and Sheppard?"

Elizabeth didn't answer right away, and Rodney felt his heart leap into his throat. He finally dragged his attention away from the windshield to look at her.

"Elizabeth?"

She took a deep breath, and Rodney steeled himself. Had Sheppard died? He'd been sitting here watching Sateda die when his teammate—_his friend_—had been dying a few feet behind him, and no one had said anything? They hadn't yelled at him or anything? Or maybe that's what they were doing now. That's why Elizabeth was talking to him now—

"Major Lorne is holding on, even doing a little better now that Carson has managed to compensate for some of his blood loss."

No offense to Lorne, but he really didn't care about the major. Well, no—he did care, but they'd always known Lorne was going to be okay eventually. His injuries weren't as life-threatening as Sheppard's.

"And Sheppard?" he asked. Did he really want to know? No, he didn't, but yes, he did.

"Not good," Elizabeth answered. "Carson's managed to keep him going with the extra supplies Atlantis sent with Lieutenant Swanson, but…"

"But?"

"But he's getting worse. His temperature's up and he's starting to struggle with his breathing. Carson's afraid he'll have to intubate, but there's no ventilation machine—he'd have to breathe for him by hand. He needs surgery on that stab wound, and his head injury…he's so weak…"

Elizabeth's voice cracked and she stopped. They sat in silence for a moment, staring out the window. The Hive ship was just visible, lines of weapon's fire showering down in steady streams toward the surface. The capital had floated into view, bright and crackling, alive and dead all at once.

"As soon as we can get through the gate, do it. I don't know how much longer Carson can keep John alive."

Rodney nodded, and Elizabeth slipped out of the chair and back to rear section of the jumper. He could hear the soft mumble of voices behind him, the words low and incomprehensible but the tone clearly anxious. In front of him, Sateda burned.

* * *

The race back to Atlantis was a blur. Carson sat in his office trying not to think about it, too tired to move even if that involved walking the short distance to his quarters and sprawling on his bed. He knew he was at the end of his rope, and knew he needed to be in peak condition over the next few days, but he couldn't seem to will himself to get up.

The three days in the jumper over Sateda had been beyond hellish. He'd heard the reports of what was going on down on the planet's surface, but his focus had been on his two critical patients. Lorne had lost a lot of blood, but the man was strong and in good physical condition. He'd been critical but had become less so, and Carson had been optimistic about his recovery.

John, on the other hand, had been in the worst shape he had ever seen him. The extent of his injuries had been appalling, and his condition had gradually deteriorated. It was all he had been able to do to keep the man breathing, to keep his heart beating. By the time they made it through the gate—first to an uninhabited planet in case any remaining Wraith followed and then to Atlantis, he'd been ready to collapse.

John's fever had raged and his breathing had grown ragged. The final wormhole trip to Atlantis had been too much for him, and he'd stopped breathing completely. Carson had chased the gurney to the infirmary, forced to watch his staff's desperate measures to save the colonel's life from the sidelines. He'd heard enough to know they'd managed to get John breathing again before he was whisked away for surgery.

The major had followed John into the surgery bay, and then Elizabeth, Teyla, and Rodney had wandered in. It took another grueling five hours before they heard word that John had survived the surgery, and then Carson had collapsed. He'd woken up twelve hours later, dressed in scrubs and sprawled on an infirmary bed, an IV taped to his hand.

John was still alive. They were all still alive. It had only been two days since the surgery, but his prognosis was good. Carson pulled up the latest scans on his computer and studied the results. By some miracle, John had not suffered a subdural hematoma. The gunshot wound had given him quite possibly the worst concussion he'd ever seen in anyone, but no bleeding on the brain. No swelling or brain damage.

His arm was broken in two places—one a hairline fracture, one a little more serious—but that was now set and heavily encased in a cast. The ribs were slowly healing as well and the myriad bruises were beginning to fade. Even the infection was showing signs of letting up its tenuous grip.

Carson sighed and pushed himself up from his desk. He really did need to get some rest before his staff mutinied and sedated him themselves. He'd check on John and Lorne one last time then head to his room for a few hours.

As he walked through the quiet infirmary, he couldn't help but think of the hospital on Sateda. He'd spent hours in that place. They hadn't been nearly as advanced as Atlantis, but they'd been well on their way. They'd been a growing, vibrant civilization, full of life and hope and expectations for a bright future.

It was late, and the infirmary was dark and quiet. The night shift nurse smiled at him, not completely hiding her concern. He must look like he'd just stumbled home after a three-day bender. He certainly felt it. He waved at her without a word and kept walking. John was set up in the bed closest to his office, and he arrived quickly.

He paused at the foot of the bed and stared down at the sick and injured man. John was buried under equipment—tubes and monitors all clicking and hissing as they measured and tracked every single bodily function. The sight reminded him of General Tremek, buried under just as many contraptions, looking pale and lifeless and floating on the edge of death.

John would live. Carson was confidant of that. Tremek would also have lived, but there was no doubt that the man was dead now. If he hadn't been killed by the Wraith or some explosion or another, he would languish quickly without anyone to care for him. So senseless.

He shook his head and walked farther down the bay toward Major Lorne. It would take all of them some time to get over this. He knew for a fact that Doctor Heightmeyer was already setting up appointments with them. They'd seen a lot of awful things in their brief time in the Pegasus Galaxy, but the destruction of Sateda ranked near the top.

Major Lorne was pale and tired-looking, but he was sleeping peacefully. His surgery had been shorter than John's, and already he was showing signs of quick improvement. Some rest and physical therapy would see the man back on his feet in a few days and back on at least partial duty in a few weeks.

If only his Satedan patients had had the same chance.

* * *

Teyla walked into the infirmary the evening of their fourth day back. She came every morning and evening to sit with John. The infirmary was quieter at those times, and she relished the silence. His bed was the first in the area designated as the intensive care unit. Someone had moved in a bigger, softer chair—Rodney maybe—and Teyla eased herself down and pulled it closer to the bed.

She grabbed John's hand with both of hers and rubbed some warmth into the cold fingers. The memories of the last few weeks still haunted her, but she forced herself to put away the negative and focus on John's recovery. They had almost lost him. It had been much, much too close this time.

He was still connected to more machines than she could count, and she'd given up trying to decipher the purposes of all of them. Some, however, were obvious—the ventilator, the heart monitor, the feeding tube, the IV stand. Others remained endlessly elusive, but she didn't care. As long as their numbers told the doctors that John was getting better, that was all she needed to know.

She leaned forward and brushed her fingers along his pale cheek. His head was ensconced in a thick white bandage, covering his hair, and she missed the messy spikes. She realized they made him look alive and vibrant the way they stuck up of their own accord.

"Good evening, John," she whispered. She had no idea if he could hear her, but on the slight chance that he could, she wanted to assure him he was safe and home. "You look better tonight."

John, in fact, looked terrible, but it was a slight improvement from the way he'd looked when they'd first gotten him home. He was still pallid, looking sick and frail and so utterly still in the bed, but he seemed to have moved further from death and closer to health. She would take whatever he could give her.

"It has been quiet here on Atlantis today, although there was quite the excitement at dinner tonight. The chefs surprised everyone with peach cobbler. They asked how you were, by the way, and promised they would make another batch as soon as you are able to enjoy it."

The blood pressure cuff around his arm clicked and hissed, and a number flashed on the screen. Teyla knew just enough to know that while it wasn't good, it was okay. The ventilator pumped steadily, and John's chest rose and fell in time with the quiet sounds. Carson had said he was getting strong enough that he might be able to remove the ventilator. It had been breathing for him for four days. Only four days. It felt like much longer, but waiting usually did.

Her stomach clenched at the thought of what he had been through, the week of suffering he'd undergone without Carson's help. If Carson had been able to reach him within the first few days, John would no doubt be up and talking, griping about staying in the infirmary and well on his way to recovery.

Thank the Ancestors for Melena and Ronon Dex. They had saved John's life under nearly impossible circumstances, sacrificing everything—maybe even their lives. The image of Sateda being battered into the ground surged to the front of her mind, and she forced herself to push it back. Rodney had been unable to tear his eyes away from the destruction, but she had found herself unable to watch it at all. She'd stayed in the back of the jumper, with John and Major Lorne, helping Carson where she could, but the few glimpses she'd caught of the Wraith assault had been enough to haunt her nightmares for days.

A nurse came by, checking on John and the various monitors, and smiled at Teyla without a word. They'd quickly gotten used to having someone constantly by his side. She left a moment later, and Teyla leaned toward John again, whispering anything she could think of to him.

She was so engrossed in her one-sided conversation that she almost didn't notice the slight change in rhythm of the heart monitor. She jerked her eyes up at one of the screens over the bed and then down to his hand still wrapped in her own. His fingers had twitched—the movement was slight, but it was more movement than she had seen in days.

Carson, never too far from his patient, had obviously heard the change on the heart monitor as well, and he came around the corner as John slowly struggled up from unconsciousness.

"He is waking," Teyla announced, simply.

"Aye, that he is," Carson responded. He fiddled with some of the monitors and IVs, then bent closer to John's face. "John, can you hear me?"

John was moving more and more. At the sound of Carson's voice, he turned his head slightly toward the doctor. Teyla held onto his hand and could feel John's fingers feebly opening and closing around her own.

"John, lad, I need you to open your eyes for me. Just for a moment. Come on," Carson prodded, his voice gentle but insistent. John's eyes fluttered some more and Teyla thought she heard him moan faintly.

"We are here, John," she said, squeezing his hand. At the sound of her voice, John tried to turn toward her and he was partially successful in opening his eyes. He gagged slightly against the tube in his throat. Normally, he would have made some attempt to pull it out, but though his hand twitched slightly, he seemed incapable of moving it anywhere near the tube. His broken arm lay unmoving.

"John, relax. You've got a tube in your throat helping you breathe. You've had a rough time of it these last few weeks," Carson explained. John blinked a couple of times before looking up at the doctor. Teyla could see the confusion and exhaustion clearly in his eyes, but she smiled at the sight. She had missed the sight of those eyes.

"You're still very weak, so we need to leave the tube in. Are you in any pain? Squeeze Teyla's hand if you are," Carson said.

John looked up at him, still dazed as if he wasn't quite sure where he was. He blinked a few times, the confusion in his eyes slowly morphing to fear. Teyla wondered if he had understood Carson's question. She continued to hold onto his hand and noted that he'd made no attempt to squeeze it. John seemed to be struggling to stay awake, and his moment of consciousness quickly sapped his energy. His eyes slid shut and he settled back into a deep sleep.

"Carson?" Teyla asked, unable to mask the fear of John's less-than-exuberant response to either her or Beckett.

"He's weak, Teyla. Very weak. We can't expect too much from him just yet."

"I understand," she said, but she wanted more. She wanted John to look at her, to smile, to squeeze her hand and tell her he was fine. They made too many demands on him sometimes—she knew this, but she could not always help it.

"He really is doing better," Carson said, jarring her from her thoughts. "We should even be able to take him off the ventilator later on today. Trust me when I say, the next time he wakes up, he'll be feeling a lot more comfortable." He patted Teyla's shoulder and Teyla nodded back in gratitude at the gesture of comfort before turning her attention back to her ailing friend.

* * *

Evan eased himself off the bed, wincing at the muscles that pulled across his chest and shoulder. Beckett was watching him closely, and he straightened up, smiling.

"Feeling good, doc."

Beckett laughed, shaking his head. "I doubt that, but since you didn't fall flat on your face, I suppose I can't keep you cooped up in here any longer."

"I've been walking around for days!"

"Aye, you have. Major, you are officially released from the infirmary, but I want you resting. You are not on active duty. You are not even on semi-active duty, including paperwork. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Evan answered. Beckett handed him a bag of pill containers and a stack of instructions.

"Take your meds and wear your sling. If I catch you out of it for any reason, I will land your arse right back here in the infirmary."

"Even in the shower?"

Beckett threw up his hands in exasperation. "Off with ye," he griped, but Evan caught the small grin on his face. The doctor had been under a tremendous amount of stress, but he was glad to see that was beginning to ease. With a mock salute, he slid away from the bed and headed out of the infirmary.

He had just reached the door, when he paused and looked over at the ICU area. Colonel Sheppard had made slow but steady progress in the last week, and he wondered if he was awake at the moment. He twisted on his heel and walked over to his CO's bed.

Sheppard was half-sitting up but dozing, and he'd slid over into a hunched position in the process. It looked extremely uncomfortable, but straightening him out would definitely cross the CO-XO boundary. Besides, Evan only had one good arm at the moment.

He'd retreated a few steps just as Sheppard groaned and shifted on the bed. His eyes blinked open before Lorne had the chance to dart out of sight, so he stood there, waiting awkwardly.

"Lorne?"

"Hey, sir. I was just on my way out, and thought I'd stop by. How are you feeling today?"

Sheppard grunted, wavering his hand in a so-so gesture. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the pain but eventually managed to sit up a little straighter. Lorne watched him helplessly. The man still looked like he was in bad shape. The feeding tube had been removed, but the nasal cannula was in place. The bandages on his head made him look small and fragile, and his casted arm rested heavily against his stomach. Lorne found himself again cursing the men who had done this.

He'd known Kell was up to something. He'd sensed it the moment he'd met the man. Every cell in his body had screamed its distrust, but he'd had no choice but to listen to the man, no evidence to force him into a confession. He thought of the policemen he'd roamed all over the city with in their search for the Colonel, the hospital staff who'd asked after all of them, the innocent military personnel who'd searched the base and the riverside for days on end.

Where were they now? Dead. Bodies amongst the wreckage of their civilization, or worse—culled. They'd been advanced, well on their way to making something of themselves, of having an impact on the galaxy. They'd been good people and would have been good friends. Lorne felt a rush of anger and grief at their loss.

"You okay?" Sheppard rasped.

Lorne shook his head, blinking back the memories. "Uh, yes, sir. Sorry. Just glad Doctor Beckett finally released me."

"Good. S'good," Sheppard whispered, his eyes already pulling closed in exhaustion. The man slept almost all day long, but it still didn't look like it was enough.

Maybe that was a good thing for now. Sheppard had asked occasionally about Sateda and Ronon Dex, but he was still too tired and out of it to really grasp their short detail-less answers. When he was well enough to start thinking straight, Sateda's fate would hit him hard. Their lack of answers regarding Ronon's and Melena's whereabouts would be just as troubling, if not more so. Lorne shook his head. They'd have to deal with that when the time came. For now, the colonel was healing and that was all that mattered.

"Get some rest, sir," he said, needlessly. Sheppard's breathing had evened out, and the man was sound asleep again. Lorne rubbed at the ache in his shoulder and studied his CO for one last moment, then fled the infirmary, losing himself in the busy daily life of the Atlantis expedition.

TBC…


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27—Epilogue_

"Hey, you."

Elizabeth stood in the doorway leading out to the infirmary balcony with her hands on her hips. She smiled, but it felt forced and she took a deep breath. She had never been very good at this whole bedside manner thing, but she needed to be right now.

John lay reclined in a cot at the end of the balcony, buried in blankets. He rolled his head toward her, and the movement looked like it took way too much effort. He was definitely looking better, but he still had a long recovery in front of him.

"Hey," he answered. He turned back to the water and seemed to lose himself it its depths.

Elizabeth felt suddenly nervous, but she forced it to the side and walked over to him. She glanced out at the ocean and marveled at the view. The water was a brilliant blue, stretching out to the horizon in all directions. No wonder John had wanted to come out here.

"I ran into Teyla earlier today. She said your latest scans were good." She'd also said that John was still struggling with continuous aches and pains, and that he was still too weak and tired to do much but lay sprawled in a bed. Elizabeth shifted awkwardly on her feet a moment before pulling up the chair next to him and sitting down.

John closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply. He didn't seem to be in much of a talkative mood, so she sat there with him and tried to relax. They were high enough that the salty air was less noticeable, but she could still taste it when she breathed deeply.

"Carson said I could probably go back to my room in a week or so," he finally said. He smiled, but the movement looked stiff and unnatural.

He hurt—all over. Elizabeth could see it in every deliberate movement. His arm rested across his chest in cast and sling, barely visible beneath the blankets. His knee looked worse than it felt, or so John said, and Carson had said he'd been lucky. Nothing had been torn or stretched too far to require an operation. The stab wound, on the other hand, had been relatively deep though angled so that more serious damage had been prevented. The delay in getting treatment, however, had made matters worse. The surgery to repair it had lasted hours, and the resulting fever from the associated infection had lasted days. John had been oblivious to all of it, waking up only once in the jumper for a few minutes while Elizabeth had dozed. The next time he'd woken up had been to a quiet infirmary.

Rodney had worn holes in the floor from his pacing both in the infirmary and in his lab. Teyla had turned down opportunities to spend time with her people and chosen instead to plant herself at John's bedside. This more than anything revealed how worried she'd been over John's welfare. Even now, she seemed hesitant to let John out of her sight.

A gust of wind blew across the balcony, dying down almost as quickly as it had started. It ruffled the hair sticking straight up on top of John's head and shivered across the back of Elizabeth's neck. He looked better, she decided, with the headband-style bandages versus the full cap covering his entire head. It showed progress, and there was something about seeing his hair that made him look a little more spry.

John was leaning back in the cot and looking up at the billowing white clouds in the sky, budding and stretching. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair as well and filled her lungs with the fresh air. The warm sun beat down on her face. There was definitely something rejuvenating about it. She'd been surprised at first to hear Carson had let John go out to the balcony, but now she understood. She glanced over at him and saw he was still staring at the sky, and she wondered if he was thinking about flying.

"How's your head?" she asked, loath to break the silence. But she had to—she'd come out here for a specific purpose.

"Hard as ever," he quipped, but it sounded flatter than perhaps he'd intended. Less jovial.

Elizabeth waited for him to say more, but what did she expect him to say? He was getting better, slowly. Carson had had to shave the hair around the wound—much to John's horror—but it was hardly noticeable under the tight bandage he still sported, and it should all grow back in by the time the gash was healed over enough that it didn't constantly need to be covered.

The headaches were still bad, knocking him out for hours, sometimes even a day at a time, but Carson had said that they too were getting less intense and less frequent. John was healing—he was washed out and exhausted, regardless of the fact that he still slept for upwards of eighteen hours a day—but he was getting better. Physically, at least.

And that was why she was here. She'd read the daily reports Carson had sent her and talked to Doctor Heightmeyer. Their experiences on Sateda were bound to have a profound effect on all of them, John specifically. Despite their best attempts to give him space and allow him to heal in his own time, she knew he'd overheard the talk, the too-loud whispers behind thin curtains. He wasn't healing as fast as he should. He was depressed. He was suffering from post-traumatic stress.

Most of the time—when he wasn't sleeping—he lay quietly in his bed in the corner of the infirmary, watching people go about their daily business. He talked when Teyla and Rodney came to visit—but he was never one to ramble the way Rodney did anyway. He answered Carson's questions as truthfully as he could, passively allowing the man to subject him to every test known to man. Elizabeth knew Carson had been hovering badly, something that usually drove John insane, but he hadn't said two words about it. The doctor was working through his own issues from Sateda, lathering on John all the care he couldn't offer the Satedans.

Frankly, Elizabeth understood everyone's need to see John alive and home, hers included, and she suspected John was equally aware of this. But depressed? Post-traumatic stress? That had been tough to swallow. She could see the signs of mental exhaustion at the very least.

"I wish you'd talk to Kate again," Elizabeth suddenly said, plunging abruptly into the subject. She cringed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. So much for easing into it.

John stiffened immediately. "I'm fine," he sighed. "I'm getting there, anyway."

"John—"

"I tried," he burst out then winced at a flare of pain. "We met and…it's not…I didn't know how…what to…oh, never mind." He sagged into the blankets and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just can't, Elizabeth," he muttered, his voice low and muffled behind his hand.

She could see his hand shaking, but whether it was from exhaustion or emotion, she didn't know. "I know you don't like talking about these kinds of…things," she fumbled, afraid of saying the wrong thing. "I just want you to know that I'm here if you need me, John. Whatever you're thinking or feeling, you don't have to go through it alone."

"I'm not…" but he let his voice trail off and shook his head.

He wasn't good, and they both knew it, but he was getting there. A little depression after such a traumatic event wasn't unusual or unexpected. It was normal, actually, and Elizabeth wished he could accept that. She was willing to give him the time he needed, but he had never been one to chat easily with a shrink in order to get there. John did not open up easily or quickly, especially with people he didn't know well. They'd all been through an ordeal—they'd all suffered—and they would all move past it in their own time and way.

"Have you gone back to Sateda yet?" he asked, changing the subject.

Elizabeth glanced at him, biting her lip a moment. She wanted to help him, but she knew John well enough not to force him into anything.

"We sent a MALP," she answered carefully, jumping from one difficult topic to another.

It wasn't a complete answer, but John must have heard the rest of it in the tone of her voice. Elizabeth thought suddenly of Ronon, Nurif, and all the others they'd befriended. Gone.

"The Wraith destroyed everything," he stated flatly, vocalizing the rest of Elizabeth's answer.

"Yes, they did."

"Any…people?"

"None that the MALP sensors picked up. Major Lorne wants to do a sweep of the planet with a jumper, but we're worried the Wraith might still be in the neighborhood. Maybe in another few days."

John nodded. "How is Lorne, by the way?"

"He's good. Back on semi-active duty today—paperwork only. I think he'd prefer being off-duty completely to that."

A shadow fell across the balcony as clouds chased across the sky, obscuring the sun. A second later, the beams broke through again and glinted off the water. The occasional white capped waves settled into the ocean, like the fading strokes of a paintbrush. From this high up, the water looked perfectly smooth. The perfect illusion.

"Do you think any of them survived?" he asked, shivering at another gust of cool air.

"Maybe," Elizabeth answered tentatively. She stood up and stretched her back, then grabbed a blanket from a stack behind her. She spread it over him, tucking the edges in around John's shoulders, then smiled at the scowling glare he was giving her. There was a sign of the old John.

"There's a chance some of the people outside of the main cities might have been able to hide," she continued, growing serious once again. "Rodney thinks three hundred or so might have managed to get through the ring between when the first two darts were shot down and the arrival of the Hive."

What about Ronon and Melena? She could almost see the question on his face. His report so far had been brief, giving her just the basics, but it was clear he'd developed a strong relationship with the two people who had saved his life. Off all the questions they had, that one would haunt him for a long time to come. They had no way of finding that information out anyway. They didn't even know if Ronon and Melena had had time to get to the gate before the Wraith started running interference and pummeling the city.

John had been unconscious in the jumper. He had not been forced to watch an entire planet destroyed, had not hovered above the atmosphere invisible and helpless. A hatred—dark and powerful—surged through Elizabeth at the thought of the Wraith, of what they had done to Sateda and so many other worlds. She forced the anger back down to the pit of her stomach, not wanting to subject John to her own issues. When she glanced over at him, she saw that his face had darkened into a livid scowl.

"John, are you okay?"

He flinched then forced his face to relax. "I was thinking of Kell. He was willing to sacrifice hundreds, maybe thousands of his people for his own gain, his own safety. You'd think with the threat of the Wraith hanging over them, that people would be more…I don't know…more generous. More concerned about each other's welfare."

Elizabeth took her time in answering. The same thoughts had crossed her mind, almost since the moment they'd met the Wraith. The sun beat down warm on her skin and she felt a wave of tiredness come over her.

"Teyla once said the Wraith draw out the best and the worst of humanity."

"Clearly Kell was the worst," John said. "What's the best?"

"Ronon, Melena, and people like them all across the galaxy. They saved you because it was the right thing to do, not because of anything they might gain from it. Humanity will persist. It will carry on against all odds."

John rubbed at his forehead, as if he could physically push the aches in his body to the back of his mind. He heard what she was saying, but Elizabeth wasn't sure he was ready to listen to it. Her thoughts drifted back to the report John had given about his experiences. Ronon had come back for him when he'd been pinned down by the Wraith, making sure that John, personally, got back to Sateda. He'd stood up to Kell's execution squad, dived into a freezing river, then dragged John's frozen body through the woods. Melena had come instantly, caring for him day and night. They'd carried him as they'd run from the soldiers in the woods and dragged him across the city looking for his people.

They'd done everything they possible could, all for him.

"What are you saying?" he mumbled, fighting sleep. Elizabeth glanced at the balcony door, half expecting Carson to come bustling out, ushering John back inside and to bed. John tried to sit up a little straighter, but the fatigue was evident. He wasn't going to be awake for much longer.

"I'm saying, John Sheppard, get better," Elizabeth commanded. She grabbed a hold of his hand, and he let her warmth seep into his cold fingers. "Heal. Rest as long as you need to, and then get back out there. This galaxy needs people like you, and Ronon, and Melena."

She paused a moment, making sure she had his attention. "I don't know if they survived, John," she said quietly, "but I choose to believe that they did. Some day, we'll meet up with them again."

Her hand tightened around his briefly then began to pull away, but he grabbed a hold of her. Elizabeth had started to stand up, but she settled back down and waited, patiently. She saw John blush with embarrassment, the pink flush in his cheeks a healthy contrast to his otherwise sallow skin.

He swallowed visibly and tried to sit up a little straighter. The pain and sorrow in his eyes was almost palpable, and Elizabeth felt a chunk of ice lodge in her chest.

"Elizabeth, I…I don't know how…I don't know what to say, to talk about…" John bit his lip, hesitant and lost.

"Tell me about them," she answered, scooting her chair closer and keeping a firm grasp on his hand.

"Who?"

"Ronon and Melena. What were they like?"

It took a long moment of consideration, but then John relaxed back in the recliner and stared out at the ocean again. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he grappled with the question. After awhile, the pain deep in his face lifted, just a little.

"Did I ever tell you about Ronon's house?" he finally asked. At the shake of Elizabeth's head, he continued, his voice hoarse at first but growing stronger as he spoke. "It was beautiful and big—this old mansion set in the middle of the woods. And so quiet. Melena loved that place. She made this soup every night, and she was worse than Carson with her mother-henning. I could always hear Ronon chopping wood through the open window—he was the epitome of the outdoorsman. He and Rodney would have driven each other insane. And every morning, I swear these damn birds would land on the window sill at the crack of dawn…"

* * *

_Three years later…_

"Doctor Parrish believes that the indigenous plant life retains enough residual radioactivity absorbed during the daylight to…um…well, to screw up our sensors," McKay stated.

John snapped the overhead display of the jumper off with a disgruntled glare at the jumper windshield. "Making it the perfect place to hide."

"Yes—or the perfect place to be exposed to dangerously high levels of solar radiation."

John ignored McKay. They'd had this argument three times already. They'd have to search this planet the old-fashioned way, trudging through the woods with their own two feet. Figures that the biologist—what was his name again? Liang, maybe—chose this planet to go nuts on and run off.

That was a bit harsh. He didn't exactly _choose_ to go nuts, according to Heightmeyer. This planet, with its excessive radiation and bizarre plant life, happened to be the catalyst for Liang's psychotic break. The break itself was a result of compounding stress and anxiety—proving once again that not everyone was suited to life in the Pegasus Galaxy, even when they passed the SGC's extensive psychological tests.

He parked the jumper on the edge of the woods, a good two hundred yards from the stargate, and stood up, stretching. Major Lorne was already at the back, opening the hatch, and the hydraulic hiss filled the small space. A second later, the hatch hit the ground with a thump, and one of Lorne's teammates poked his head in.

"Any activity while we were gone?" Lorne asked him.

"No, sir."

John followed Lorne out of the jumper and looked around the woods. It was dead silent, almost eerie. There should at least be birds or insects. Well, apparently there were insects, just none large enough to detect with either the human eye or ear.

"Start a sweep," he commanded. "Radio contact every twenty minutes."

Lorne stepped in to assign search areas to each pair, and John double-checked his weapon. There'd been no sign of anything dangerous here yet, but it was the Pegasus Galaxy. He had learned from long experience to never underestimate the Pegasus Galaxy. He turned his head slightly at the soft scrape of boots against puddle jumper floor behind him.

"How come it smells like I'm on vacation?"

McKay stepped up next to him, lathering on gobs of white lotion. "Could it be the simulated tropical aroma of cocoa butter?"

"Strong enough for anyone within five miles to smell you."

"Like they haven't been tipped off by the Aqua Velva?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and almost succeeded. "It's dark," he pointed out, waving a hand at the dark gray skies and shadowy forest.

"Yeah, and the sun will be up in two hours, forty three minutes and…ten seconds."

Lorne's team and the extra Marine unit they'd brought along for the search had already split off. Lorne looked between John and Rodney with something between amusement and exasperation.

"It's raining!" John huffed. Some days, McKay just got under his skin, and John didn't know whether to smack him, scream at him, or laugh hysterically. The prickly scientist was like a little puppy when it came to arguing, gnawing at his ankle and refusing to let go.

"So we'll be cold and miserable," McKay continued. He was still smearing his lotion on, and his ruddy face was painted with streaks of white. "Look, the cloud cover will depreciate a small percentage of UV rays, but ninety-five percent of deadly is still deadly."

Lorne jumped in. "Doctor Parrish said a day or two of exposure wasn't going to kill us."

"Oh yes, and Doctor Parrish has a PhD in what? Right—botany."

John shook his head, the urge to laugh overwhelming. He bit his lip and turned back to the jumper, where Teyla was just zipping up her pack. A wide grin was splitting her face, and John had to turn away from her before he lost it completely. Lorne was edging away from them and staring into the woods, a pained expression on his face.

"Teyla, you're with me," John announced, but he didn't dare look back at her. "Major, you've got McKay."

"Lucky me," Lorne muttered.

McKay held out his tube of lotion, the cocoa butter smell almost burning John's nostrils. He breathed a sigh of relief when the physicist walked down the hatch and smiled at Lorne.

"Here, try some. SPF 100."

"100?"

"Yeah. Can't buy this kind of protection. Make it myself. Waterproof, too."

"Great." Their voices drifted off as they headed into the woods and it was another full minute before the smell of the sunblock disappeared.

John and Teyla had headed into the woods, walking in silence. John was struck again by the lack of sound. Birds could be creepy anyway—hence all the stories, myths, and movies featuring birds as bad omens—but the lack of birds…it was really starting to get to him. He shrugged it off, forcing himself to study the path they were on. If they were going to find Liang before the radiation on this world did too much damage, he needed to focus.

"It looks as if someone might have headed off in this direction," Teyla said, breaking the silence. They'd been walking for almost an hour, and the only words they'd uttered so far were the two radio check-ins with the other search parties.

John squatted down and stared at the ground. It was nearly invisible, but he could just make out the signs of a shoe scrape against the dirt and a few crushed leaves.

They kept moving, and John felt his skin prickling with anticipation. Whatever was going on in Liang's head, he wasn't going to make it easy for them to bring him in. John had little experience dealing with mental illness in general, but a man suffering a psychotic break on an alien planet? That hadn't been covered in orientation…

"I heard something," Teyla whispered, pausing in her tracks.

John straightened up, deliberately lowering his P90 and holding his hands out to his side. "Liang? That you? It's Colonel Sheppard."

Beside him, Teyla had also lowered his weapon. "Doctor Liang, please listen to me. We want to help you. Just come out—we only want to talk."

The silence of the woods seemed to descend on top of them. John stayed as still as possible, listening for any sign of Liang. He had almost given up when he heard the snap of a twig and the rustle of leaves.

"There!" Teyla yelled, and John just barely caught a glimpse of someone or something disappearing into the shadows.

They ran, discarding any and all attempts to move quietly. The terrain had turned rocky, and Teyla had managed to move a few feet in front of John. Slow down—they needed to slow down. They could easily run into some kind of ambush, assuming Liang was thinking clearly enough to do something like that. John couldn't take any chances. Liang could be capable of anything.

"_Colonel Sheppard, it's Major Lorne. In pursuit of suspect."_

"What?" John cried, distracted for a split second. "So are we. Where are you?"

A red beam of light exploded from off to the side, striking Teyla in the chest. She never even had time to cry out. Just collapsed to the ground. John slowed down, raising his P90. What the hell had Teyla just been hit with? He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. There was no way that could be Liang.

"Stand by," he whispered into the radio. "Teyla's been hit."

They'd run into a natural courtyard, surrounded by piled boulders. He crept closer to Teyla, keeping his weapon and eyes raised but intensely worried about his teammate. She had yet to move, and a sense of dread filled him at the sight. She had to be okay. She _had_ to be okay.

He caught a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and spun around, but whatever he'd seen was gone. He could fill eyes on him though, tracking him. Lorne's voice broke through, echoing in the small rocky yard.

"_Colonel Sheppard, say again. What's your position?"_

John swallowed, cursing inwardly. He wanted to tell Lorne to shut the hell up, he was a little busy at the moment, but he didn't dare take his hands off his weapon or his attention off the many dips and cracks in the rocky hill in front of him. Any number of enemies could be hiding there, waiting for him to lose his focus for just a second.

"_Colonel Sheppard, please respond."_

There was no movement in the rocks. John toed Teyla's leg, hoping to get some response from her, but she was still unconscious. He was about to kneel down next to her when he heard a soft footfall behind him.

He froze. He could hear whoever it was behind him breathing, and it was definitely not Liang. He turned slowly keeping his hands on his weapon and hoping his unhurried, deliberate movements would dissuade his ambusher from shooting.

A man stepped out of the shadows, holding a weapon in his hand and pointing it at John's head. His hair was all over the place, dreadlocks thick and chaotic. He was wearing worn leather clothing and his face was covered in dirt. They stared at each other for a moment, and the silence of the forest settled in around them.

The other man broke the silence first, his dark eyes shining with exhaustion and something else…Desperation? Relief? Hope?

"Sheppard?"

John lowered his P90 as he took in the man before him, not quite believing what he was seeing. He hadn't seen him in three years, but he had dreamed of this moment many times. He smiled suddenly, and the other man lowered his gun.

"Hey, Ronon."

**~ THE END ~**

**A/N:** And we've reached the end! Thank once again to my betas on this story: wildcat88, everybetty, and pheral - you were tremendously helpful in helping me get this beast finished. I was so nervous posting this story, and all the comments and feedback along the way were great. Thank you to everyone who lent their support. I hope you've enjoyed the entire story now - including the ending! And I particularly hope you will find the end, after such a long story, satisfying. Until next time! :D


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